


Maybe We'll Ride Them Some Day

by threemeows



Series: Wild Horses [7]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: yiiiiiikes people were upset before? sorry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-09-18 07:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16990653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: "The door jingles and Lara Jean looks up and right away, when she catches eyes with Peter, knows this is a terrible mistake. He grins at her, heads toward her seat, and she gulps. She should leave. Right now. Make up an excuse. Because he’s smiling at her exactly the same way he used to do when they were in high school and he’d lock eyes with her across the hall or the lacrosse field – happy, carefree, easy, like the world spun and circled around her, around them – and she cannot be here right now when she has a boyfriend."Conclusion of Wild Horses.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, last part of Wild Horses. Sorry for the delay. I don't know how many parts this will be right now. Same deal, movie-verse blended with book. Sorry for giving people coronaries with the last installment. WAS NOT MY INTENTION I ASSURE YOU.

“So. Are you guys getting back together?”

 

Lara Jean looks up from mixing nail polish colors. Thousands of miles away, Margot snickers over FaceTime. Kitty is all innocence, sprawled out on top of Lara Jean’s bed, supposedly surfing the web on her phone. But Lara Jean knows that look.

 

“No. It’s just coffee.” Lara Jean adds more red to the mix. She’s aiming for the perfect deep red shade – Christmas red, but not Santa red. It’s a delicate balance. Then she says, almost as an afterthought, “Besides. I’m with John.”

 

“Abraham McCluskerface, yuck,” Kitty grumbles.

 

“Kitty!” Margot exclaims, her voice teeny. But even Lara Jean can hear the underlying laughter. She shoots Margot a pleading look, but ignores Kitty. Her little sister has never liked John, for the simple reason that he isn’t Peter. For some odd reason, Kitty had been indifferent to the idea of Theo, never asking anything of real substance about him, and keeping her responses to short, ambivalent “ohs” and “okays.” She was polite the one time they met over the summer between sophomore and junior year, and when he eventually dumped Lara Jean, Kitty had been sympathetic and even kind.

 

But the second she found out that John was back in Lara Jean’s life, Kitty reverted back to her middle-school persona - glaring and vengeful and deeply cutting. It’s best to pretend her little sister never said anything – it’s like poking a dog with a stick. A rabid dog, with a very short, sharp stick. Instead, Lara Jean says, casual, “I don’t understand why you’re so invested in this. You haven’t seen Peter in ages yourself.”

 

“Who’s invested?” Kitty says, clicking away on her phone. “If there’s one thing I learned from listening to you two, it’s that all boys suck. I’m just wondering what kind of drama is gonna unfold. So I can sit here and cackle. Gleefully, I might add.”

 

“She’s been a real grump lately,” Lara Jean says, to Margot. “Ever since her senior year started.”

 

“Have not,” Kitty grumps.

 

“Don’t worry, Kitty, I’m sure you’ll get into Barnard,” Margot says, reassuringly.

 

Kitty mutters something that oddly sounds like, “This isn’t about college,” but otherwise doesn’t reply.

 

Lara Jean resists rolling her eyes. “How’s wedding planning going?” she asks Margot, changing the subject.

 

“Oh, god,” Margot sighs heavily. “Sometimes I think we should elope. It’s total insanity. Grandma and Ravi’s parents still haven’t forgiven us for moving the date up.”

 

“It’s just in April rather than June. What’s the big deal?”

 

“Apparently, this doesn’t give everybody’s relatives enough time to make arrangements to come here,” Margot says, now sounding rather grumpy herself. “Ravi’s parents are insisting on this whole big affair. Grandma keeps saying if we do an Indian wedding, we have to do a Korean one, too. And god knows what other Grandma’s gonna say.” All three girls shudder. “And, on top of all of that, there’s not really many Korean people near where we live. So we’d have to go all the way to London to find a Korean church. Which I don’t even know if it exists because they’re Church of England here and did you know that that’s different from back home? And if we have an Indian wedding and a Korean wedding down in London, do you know how crazy expensive that is -“

 

“Wow, slow down,” Lara Jean says, amazed. She’s never seen Margot look so ... panicked is perhaps too strong a word. Flustered, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s definitely disconcerting. Margot gives new meaning to the word unflappable. Or used to, at least. “So have, like, I don’t know. An American-British one.”

 

“Ugh, _so_ mayo,” Kitty says. “And, you’ll be playing straight into white Grandma’s hands. Which, ugh.”

 

“Grump!” Lara Jean mutters under her breath. “First of all, we don’t even have to invite her. I mean, she didn’t even come to Dad and Trina’s.” Dad’s never said why the fell out, but they all have their suspicions, and it most likely has to do with Mommy. “And yes, it won’t be as cool. You’d look so beautiful in a sari, or a hanbok. But! Maybe you could wear both, and just do, you know . . . a mayo wedding ceremony.” They all laugh. “Oooh. But you should have it in a castle!”

 

“Lara Jean!” Margot laughs. “Do you know how expensive that would be? Also, drafty. A lot of them are wrecks and are unlivable.”

 

“But maybe one of those stately homes. Like in _Pride & Prejudice._ Or a cottage.” Lara Jean stares off into space, dreamy. The rolling green pastures, dotted with softly bleating sheep, and a cozy warm cottage and sprawling courtyard, rimmed in Christmas lights and peonies . . . and a handsome lord of the manor waiting at the end of flagstoned path, with dark eyes and curly hair . . . _Wait a second . . ._

 

“You’re what they call a nutter here,” Margot says, snapping Lara Jean out of her daydream. Something beeps on Margot’s end – her alarm. “Ugh! Ok. I better start packing for the flight. See you tomorrow!”

 

“Bye!” Lara Jean blows a kiss, lifts her phone for Kitty to wave. “Safe flight!”

 

As soon as Margot goes, Kitty turns her glinting eyes to Lara Jean. “So. How did Peter react when you told him about Jim?”

 

“ _John_ never came up.”

 

Kitty’s eyes narrow more. “He never came up?”

 

“Nope.” Lara Jean concentrates on keeping the brush stroke steady.

 

“... Did you tell John about Peter?”

 

“No.”

 

Kitty opens her mouth to yell but Lara Jean looks up, glaring. “John’s my boyfriend, not my parent, Kitty. I don’t need his permission to go have a cup of coffee with a friend.”

 

“Peter's not a friend! He was your boyfriend!”

 

“Who is now my boy, space, friend.” Frustrated now, she says, “Look, he's probably seeing someone too, for all you know."

 

"He isn't. He and Casey didn't last long," Kitty says, matter-of-factly.

 

_Casey? Who’s Casey?_

 

“How do you know that?” Lara Jean asks, voice neutral. She doesn’t want to sound too curious.

 

Kitty still smirks, smelling blood in the water. “We still follow each other on Instagram. I saw some stuff, and she has a public profile. Honestly, I don’t know what he was thinking, she was _much_ better than Melissa -“

 

“I thought you wanted us back together,” Lara Jean interrupts, testy.

 

“Well, objectively, I’m just saying, Casey was _way_ better than Melissa,” Kitty says. “And, you’re _clearly_ a dumbass, so ...”

 

“God, Kitty, would you just -“ Lara Jean finds a couple of used cotton balls and throws them at her.

 

“What kind of game are you playing, LJ?” Kitty asks, serious now.

 

Lara Jean looks at her, non-plussed. There’s something familiar about that question, something that she doesn’t like. “I don’t play games,” she says. “Don’t say stuff like that.” Kitty gives her a mute glare, which is somehow worse than any of her sharp remarks. “Look, just go and hang out with Brielle, okay?”

 

Kitty stiffens – doesn’t say anything, but leaves in a huff. Lara Jean watches her go, stewing. _What’s_ with _her lately?_ she wonders, not for the first time. Then she shakes her head and goes back to her nails. She really does have to find the perfect color.

 

*

 

Almost six years ago, when John Ambrose McClaren walked into her life clutching a bouquet of flowers and a letter she wrote back in middle school, Lara Jean had felt a pull – like a wave that was receding back into the ocean, drawing her in to some sort of collision that she seemed powerless to stop. It was magnetic, uncontrollable. Like fate.

 

(It didn’t hurt that she was constantly anxious about herself and lack of experience and confused and just plain mad about Peter and Gen.)

 

And so, maybe she shouldn’t have been so surprised when, a few weeks after Theo broke up with her to chase after that freshman, she’d spotted someone across the dining hall. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“Hi! Hey.” There was an awkward semi-half-hug thing where Lara Jean wasn’t exactly sure where to put her hands and she was abruptly overwhelmed by how nice he smelled, and after all the “how are you doings?” and “you look goods!” that they must’ve exchanged at least six of seven times, John offered, “Yeah. I transferred here after freshman year.”

 

“And I’m only just now finding out about this? You’ve been here over a year!”

 

He did a half-shrug, smile sheepish. “Yeah well - I uh, didn’t want to impose.”

 

She’d flushed. She wasn’t sure why. She told him he should join her and her friends for lunch. He’d accepted.

 

The rest kind of ... fell into place. They started meeting up to study together - even though John was majoring in poli-sci - and that kind of evolved to hanging out without books which evolved into making out and then - yeah.

 

It’d been wonderful. He’d been there for her, back in high school, when she was devastated about Peter. And then he came, out of the blue, like a knight in shining armor - straight out of her novels - when she was angry and smarting about Theo. When they were younger, and she had decided to let John down, he’d told her it wasn’t their time, and maybe one day it would be.

 

It looked like now was that day.

 

And John’s been nothing but good, and kind, and sweet – just like he was in high school. He was understanding while she studied for the MCATs – went on late night caffeine runs – was so nice to Aly and Sav, who were kind of suspicious of him at first because of the Great Theo Aftermath. This past summer, they took a meandering road-trip back home to Virginia, went to a Baltimore Orioles game. Turns out, they _do_ suck, but she now has a newfound appreciation for baseball, and the way the game just made John’s face light up – a crease between his brows when the count was 3-2, a grin and laugh and cheer when an Orioles player made an amazing diving catch, and the unmitigated joy when she accidentally caught a foul ball with her popcorn tub. She gave him the ball afterwards, signed it with a heart and her name, and the tender thank you kiss he gave her under the baking summer sun made her insides flare deliciously. It had been a wonderful time.

 

And during one quiet evening, before senior year started up, she met his parents. They took them to an expensive Greek restaurant in their town. His mom loved her.

 

“Yes, I do remember you,” Mrs. McClaren said, when Mr. McClaren and John were talking about the UNC’s football chances next year. She laughed brightly and said, “Back in middle school, right? He was always going on about an LJ back then. How she had fancy hair – like twisted bread.”

 

Lara Jean had blushed bright red and smiled and said, laughing, “I was always going on about him back then, too.”

 

(Except . . . there was that overlap period. When she liked someone else, too.)

 

And now she’s staring at this text message that she just received, two days after Christmas, from that someone else.

 

_Yo. Corner Cafe? 11:00a tmw?_

 

Lara Jean flops down on her bed and buries her face in her pillow. She wishes to god she never suggested it. She wishes to god that her initial thought - that Peter would forget, blow it off, maybe come to his own senses, something, anything – had come true. She would’ve almost welcomed a ghosting, or a polite, _Sorry! Things have been busy. Maybe some other time?_ , and left it at that - him, a happy, warm memory from her teenage years, a lovely dream, the first boy she ever really loved.

 

She can’t ghost him. That would be terrible. But the idea of telling him about John is awful.

 

The sensible side of her says that she doesn’t owe Peter an explanation. They’ve been broken up for almost two years. What happened in high school is water under the bridge. This is coffee, between old friends. He’s probably going into it thinking just that.

 

Lara Jean takes a deep breath before she opens up her texts. As she thumbs in a reply, she tries to ignore the sensation of watching a wave headed straight for her, and being powerless to stop it.

 

_Sure. See you tomorrow._

 

*

 

As soon as Lara Jean steps into the Corner Cafe, she knows she’s in trouble. The old table that she and Peter used to sit at is empty - she could very well take it, but that would be a dumb move. So she takes a seat at the counter - until she realizes this was the spot where he’d confronted her about the love letters, and she doesn’t want that reminder, either. She moves to the other end, at which point the waitress is giving her the crazy eye.

 

Lara Jean looks through the menu - also a dumb move, because all she said was she’d meet him for coffee. Coffee is quick. Coffee is a fifteen, twenty minute catch-up.

 

Her phone buzzes. Oh, thank god. Hopefully it’s Peter telling her he can’t make it. That would be great. She could say easily, _That’s okay! Maybe next time._ And next time will never come, because life will get in the way, things happen, and all that, and she’ll never, ever have to confront this - this _thing_ \- whatever this thing is, this pull he has on her, has had on her ever since he got that freaking letter, all those years ago.

 

Yes. It’ll be Peter texting her he can’t make it.

 

Except it’s not Peter.

 

_What are you up to?_

 

Lara Jean puts her phone back on the counter, screen side down. Taps nervously at it with her fingers. Flips it back up. John’s text message seems to taunt her.

 

_This is totally innocent. You are just seeing an old friend._

 

 _So ... that’s why you’re not telling him you’re meeting Peter in the first place_ , a tiny voice that sounds suspiciously like Kitty needles, persistent.

 

The door jingles and Lara Jean looks up and right away, when she catches eyes with Peter, knows this is a terrible mistake. He grins at her, heads toward her seat, and she gulps. She should leave. Right now. Make up an excuse. Because he’s smiling at her, exactly the same way he used to do when they were in high school and he’d lock eyes with her across the hall or the lacrosse field – happy, carefree, easy, like the world spun and circled around her, around them – and she cannot be here right now when she has a boyfriend.

 

But instead of standing up, instead of telling him right away she has to go, she’s suddenly allergic to coffee ... she just smiles at him, nervous, and says, as he takes the seat next to her, “Hey. Glad you could make it.”

 

-tbc-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A "coffee date" goes awry.

“Ugh, please, please, _please_ tell me you’re not getting back together with her.”

 

Peter frowns, pokes his head out of his dresser drawers where he’d been trying to find clean socks. “I thought you liked Lara Jean.”

 

“I do,” Owen says, thumping his soccer ball on the wall repeatedly over Peter’s bed. “But I don’t like drama. She brought the drama.”

 

He snorts, pulling on his socks. “Yeah, right. More than Gen?”

 

Owen reconsiders. “Okay, she wasn’t a psychopath like she was –”

 

“Don’t call her that, O –”

 

“Fine, whatever, but even you have to admit, with LJ there was all this back and forth . . . and I guess _back_ , now . . .”

 

Peter rolls his eyes and starts tying his shoelaces. “You’ve only ever had one girlfriend, and she’s about as boring and nerdy as you, so forgive me if I don’t take any of your advice.”

 

“Ouch!”

 

“Besides, more to the point, we’re not getting back together,” Peter says, heading to the bathroom.

 

He opens the medicine cabinet to grab his deodorant spray. When he closes it, Owen eyes him in the mirror, smirking. “Right. That’s mine, by the way.”

 

“I’m borrowing it. It smells nice.”

 

“Douche.” Peter drops the spray and turns, lightning fast, to grab him in a headlock – drives his knuckles repeatedly into his brother’s head. Owen’s about as tall as Peter now, but that doesn’t mean he can’t terrorize him when warranted. “Owowow! Quit it, man!” Owen stomps, hard, on Peter’s foot, and despite the pain he bursts out laughing.

 

His good mood dims, somewhat, on the drive to the diner. He’d meant what he said to Owen – it’s too quick. He doesn’t want to rush things with Covey. They’d broken up for very real, legitimate reasons, reasons that aren’t just going away. In fact, they’re definitely _not_ going away – he’s hopefully going off to law school, she’s going off to med school. Who knows where they’ll end up?

 

He’s just going to enjoy a cup of coffee with a friend. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Lara Jean – not, necessarily, being _with_ with her. But like – being able to talk with her, laugh with her. When they broke up, and the daily texts and FaceTimes abruptly trickled to polite “how are you doings?” every so often, he’d been hurt, but okay. He’d broken his wrist when he was a kid doing peewee lacrosse, and it was like that, in a way . . . he could get by, and sometimes someone would jostle him and he’d remember he was still injured, but breathing. In college, after they parted ways, there were distractions – lacrosse . . . classes and exams . . . Melissa. His dad. Through it all, he was still breathing. Is.

 

But. Anyway, this is just coffee. They’re not getting back together.

 

(Or at least, not right now.)

 

(Whatever.)

 

Peter slides his Jeep into the first empty spot in the parking lot, twirls his keys round his finger as he hops out. The weather is cold and damp – it’s been a rainy winter so far, and he jogs to the front door to get out of the drizzle quickly. He stops before he pushes it open, looks at the sign. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested Corner Café. It’s a lot of memories – all of them good – but, still . . .

 

The door jingles as he pushes it open. Lara Jean is at the counter, which confuses him a bit – they usually sat at one of the tables – but at least she’s there. For a half-second he’d been almost scared she wouldn’t show. But, there she is all right, bobbed hair and cheesy blue Christmas sweater, a snowman on her chest.

 

And as he grins at her in greeting, sees her small, nervous smile – he can’t help himself . . . _She’s so damn pretty._

 

“Hey,” she says, light, “glad you could make it.”

 

He slides into the seat next to her, some of the tension in his neck and shoulders that he didn’t even know he was carrying fading. His left wrist – the one that he broke as a kid – throbs a bit, like it always does in really cold, wet weather, but he’s gotten used to ignoring it. Instead, his grin widens when he catches her flush rising to her cheeks, the dip of her eyelashes.

 

“Same.”

 

*

 

“So of course, now is the time DeMarcus decides to absolutely lose it -”

 

“No, oh no,” Lara Jean half-moans, half-laughs, covering her face with her hands.

 

Peter, still laughing, continues, “All! Over! Me! And -” Lara Jean, snorting with laughter now, tries to calm down, “Lily.”

 

“What?! Not over her too.”

 

“Yes. Brand new leather jacket -“

 

“Oh my god ... how did she not kill you guys on the spot?”

 

“ _Me_? I did nothing wrong.”

 

Lara Jean looks at him. Judgey eyes again.

 

“Okay, so I may have helped him along the way,” he admits. “But hey! They should thank me. If it wasn’t for me, they would’ve never hooked up.”

 

“Yeah?” she says, skeptical.

 

“Yeah. I’m a natural at it,” he brags, as she snickers.

 

The waitress walks over, brisk, sets down their meals - bacon cheeseburger and fries for Peter, southwest omelet for Lara Jean. Somehow, coffee ended up turning into brunch.

 

“Um, really regretting this now,” Peter says, looking at the stacks of steaming, fragrant food.

 

“Huh?” Lara Jean says, eyes wide.

 

“I - um - meant - you know, all this talk about being drunk and vomiting before eating.”

 

“Oh! Yeah. Yeah right. Gross. Totally.” And then she picks up her utensils and starts diving in without a care in the world.

 

Peter stifles a laugh and digs in too. It’s so weird how they went from seeing each other every day and talking to each other every day to not seeing each other at all but still talking every day. To then ... not seeing or talking. And now back to talking. Somewhat. It’s not exactly like how it used to be - he can tell she’s holding herself at arms length, and he knows he definitely is - but. It’s the start of something. He’s not sure exactly what, though. Or if she even wants to go there.

 

Or if he does.

 

(He kinda, sorta does.)

 

“How’s your med school interviews going?” he asks.

 

Lara Jean heaves a big, tired sigh. “Exhausting,” she admits. She takes the toast that came with her omelet off the little saucer and puts it on her main plate. Then she grabs a few of Peter’s fries and puts it on the saucer, squirts some ketchup in a small mountain on the side. Peter watches, bemused, but doesn’t say anything. She’d used to steal his fries every time they went out, to the point that he finally suggested she do precisely what she just did so they could stop fighting over fries. “Some of them are over GoToMeeting and others require me to be in person. I’ve been all over the place the past few weeks. And I still got a few more to go after New Year’s.”

 

“Yikes. That’s intense.”

 

“I wanna shoot myself,” she says, with a rueful smile. “How are law school apps?”

 

“Good. I’m already done.” She raises her eyebrows. “They don’t do interviews. They just need essays and my LSAT score and my GPA. Which, hopefully -“ he knocks on his temple with his knuckles, Covey smiles, shaking her head, “- are enough.”

 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she says, almost wonderingly. “It’s - well - it’s really amazing, Peter.”

 

Something blooms in his chest - familiar and warm and he pretends to concentrate on shoving a slice of stray bacon back into his hamburger, lest he do something truly stupid. Like ask her out, again. “Yeah, well, I’m not gonna go save lives like you are.”

 

“Do you know what type of law you want to do?”

 

“I liked the stuff I did at the firm. I helped with a couple of pro bono cases. Got a guy asylum. A mom her kids back.” He shrugs, tries to play cool.

 

“I don’t know. That kinda does sound like saving lives,” she muses.

 

He gives her his own rueful smile. That’s Covey. Always seeing through his bullshit. “Maybe. But I gotta do my time after law school. Work at a big firm, pay off the debt. Help Mom and Owen.”

 

Lara Jean looks up at that. “Has your dad been bothering you guys again? What’s your mom gonna do?”

 

Peter shifts, slightly uncomfortable. “He hasn’t. But, you know, Owen thinks he can get some scholarships. And there’s always loans. I’ve gotta take out some loans too, for law school. But after I get a job, I’ll help out. Anything’s better than going to court, again. But Mom thinks that’s the best option.”

 

“Again?” Lara Jean asks, confused, and Peter almost chokes on his burger at his mistake, before he’s saved by his phone chiming.

 

It’s Greg. _PK!!! NYE???_

 

_Awesome, I’m in._

 

_Spread the word._

 

Peter resists rolling his eyes. So it’s gonna be one of _those_ parties.

 

“What’s up?” Lara Jean asks, polishing off her omelette.

 

“Greg.” He sets the phone back on the counter. “New Year’s Eve party.”

 

“Of course there is,” she says, knowingly.

 

He glances at her. Well. Greg did say spread the word. And maybe it’ll be fun. Like old times. Except. Not _exactly_ like old times. “I’m sure he’ll want you to bring some of your cupcakes.” Lara Jean looks blankly at him, not registering. “I mean – so, you wanna go?”

 

Lara Jean stares, eyes wide. And panicked. “I - no. No, I don’t.”

 

-tbc-


	3. Chapter 3

  _This is a freaking nightmare._

 

Peter’s got this look on his face like she backhanded him and Lara Jean's certain she’s got the same expression.

 

_Why. Whywhywhywhy._ They were just talking. It was okay. Everything was okay. She was almost done – they were almost done – and she had only felt a few whispers of happiness curling in her chest, just a tiny, bare few, when he smiled or when the corners of his eyes crinkled. She could’ve gotten through the entire not-coffee-now-brunch date – _not_ a date – and walked away with a (relatively) clear conscience. And now . . .

 

“Look, um, okay I have to be straight with you.” Nervously, Lara Jean tucks her hair behind her ears. Then does it again for good measure before she glances up at his confused gaze. “I’m - um, seeing someone.”

 

“ . . . Oookay.” Peter clears his throat. Lara Jean feels a flush creeping up to her ears. “Well, don’t worry. I wasn’t asking you on a date. Or anything. Just you know - to hang out, is all.”

 

He sounds easy, nonchalant, but she doesn’t catch his expression. So she nods rapidly, a strange swirl of relief and disappointment going through her. She decides to call it relief. “Of course. Yeah. No, no, I just thought –”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You know –”

 

“No, yeah I get it. Totally get it."

 

“In the interests of clarity.”

 

“Yup. Of course.”

 

Lara Jean fiddles with the last remaining French fry. It’s burnt and flat cold and she has no intention of eating it but it’s a perfectly welcoming distraction, stabbing the pool of ketchup viciously.

 

“So, uh, who’s the guy?”

 

Shit. Lara Jean resists closing her eyes. This shouldn’t be that big of a deal. They’ve been broken up for almost two years. John hasn’t been an issue between them since - since freaking _high school_.

 

She takes a deep breath. “John Ambrose McClaren,” she says in a rush, and stuffs the burnt fry into her mouth before she says anything more truly mortifying. Except she’d mistimed, and a ribbon of ketchup goes dribbling down the side of her mouth, forcing her to quickly grab a napkin and dab at her face.

 

When she finally chances a look at Peter, he’s looking at her with slightly wide eyes, mouth agape. “McLaren? You’re dating McClaren?”

 

Lara Jean nods once.

 

Then he laughs - chuckles even. He scrabbles the back of his head. “Oh, wow. Okay. That’s - that’s random. How ...?”

 

Lara Jean nearly chokes on her fry trying to swallow it quickly enough to respond. “Um, he transferred over after freshman year. But, I – I didn’t know ... you know, big school - we ran into each other junior year.”

 

Peter takes a long sip of his shake. “Cool. Good for you, then.”

 

Lara Jean narrows her eyes at the tone of his voice but says, politely, “Thanks.”

 

“Guess the whole long distance thing didn’t work out for him and what’s her name either, huh?”

 

“No, I guess not.”

 

He nods, then almost sneers, “Told ya.”

 

There’s no possible way he could’ve known how badly John and Dipti ended, so she knows Peter’s making a dig at their own past – and what he implied about long-distance relationships during Beach Week, which had been a terrible time for them. Now, it’s like she’s the one who’s been backhanded.

 

Lara Jean purses her lips, picks up her bag and coat. “That wasn’t cool, Peter,” she says, terse. “You know what? I better go.”

 

“Wait wait wait - Covey - wait.” He grabs her wrist as she rises from the counter - lets go when she glances down at the contact. “Um - you’re right. That wasn’t cool. Sorry.”

 

Lara Jean shifts on her feet. “Apology accepted,” she says. She glances at the door. “But, um, I really do have to go.”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

She thumbs through her purse to pull out some cash. Her hands are shaking. _Stop being so dumb_ , she tells herself, sternly. There’s no reason to be so upset. “Later,” she says, once she’s done dumping her share on the counter. Then she almost sprints out the door, coat over her arm.

 

She’s halfway there, when she hears the door jingle behind her and footsteps splashing on blacktop, rushing to catch up. “Covey, wait.”

 

Lara Jean stops and turns, arms crossed. Peter looks at her, then away. He shrugs, hands spread, and says, almost as if helpless, “Look – you didn’t even _tell_ me when I went down there – ”

 

“No, I know, I didn’t think –” she admits, tired.

 

“Don’t you think that’s a little bit shitty?” he says, and she bristles at his accusatory tone. “I mean, I asked you if you were with anybody – ”

 

“No, you just asked if I was still with Theo,” she points out, and then cringes at his “come _on_ ” face, because she knows it sounds lame – because it _is_ lame. But, honestly, what did he expect? What _does_ he expect, from her? “ _You_ were the one who came down.” She pauses, something having just occurred to her. “What were you hoping for? A hook up? Some booty call?”

 

Firmly, instantly – “ _No._ ” He shakes his head, disgusted. “No way. Why would you think that? Give me some credit.”

 

Okay, perhaps unfair. Still. “You’re the who shows up at _my_ doorstep, randomly, after almost two years. In the middle of the night. How do think I would react?”

 

There’s a brief flash of guilt over his face before he says, defensive, “I called before. You could’ve said no.”

 

“Yeah, right, like I could ever say no to you,” she snaps, quick, too quick – and the second the words are out her mouth hangs open. Peter’s staring at her, and she bites her lip, shakes her head – fumbles out, “I meant – you know – you sounded . . . you didn’t sound good.” She looks up at him, almost pleading, and says, softly, “I’m sorry.”

 

Then, before he can react, she runs back to her car – peels out the parking lot as fast as she can without causing an accident. She doesn’t look at the rearview mirror. She’s afraid of what she’ll see.

 

*

 

When she pulls up into the driveway, she can see the curtain in the living room move – Kitty. _Fantastic._

 

She blows into the house and heads straight for the stairs.

 

“Did you – ”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Did he – ”

 

“No.”

 

And then an almost whine, “Why the hell not?”

 

“ _Go to Brielle’s, Kitty!_ ” Lara Jean hollers from the top of the stairs, then slams her bedroom door, flops down onto the bed, and screams into her pillow, until she sees stars exploding into her vision. And screams some more.

 

Much later, she starts awake from the FaceTime ringtone. She looks out the window – it’s dark. Downstairs she can hear Dad and Trina and Margot getting dinner ready, the dogs whining. She must’ve napped for hours.

 

Wiping her eyes, she grabs her phone. It’s John. Her heart sinks, but she unlocks her screen.

 

“Hey, you,” he says, with a soft grin.

 

“Hey,” she says, smiling despite herself. “How’s the Windy City?”

 

“Windy,” he says. “Miss you. Where you’ve been? I tried texting you.”

 

“I’m sorry, I took a nap and just – ” Lara Jean stops. Despite having napped for the entire day, she’s tired. So exhausted. No more half-truths. “I mean, I did take a nap. But that’s why I wasn’t answering your texts. I had coffee . . . _brunch_ . . . with a . . . friend.”

 

John leans back against the headboard of the bed. “Cool. Who?”

 

Lara Jean bites her lip. “Peter.”

 

John’s brow goes up. “Peter?” He pauses, realizing. “Kavinsky?” Lara Jean nods once, her throat constricting. “You met up with Kavinsky?”

 

_Why do boys always do that?_ she wonders. _Call each other by their last names?_

 

“Okay - um - why? I mean ... I know you guys text sometimes, but not, you know . . .”

 

“He’s uh, going through some things with his dad. Just needed someone to talk to.” Internally, Lara Jean winces. It sounds so terrible. So hypocritical, given what happened over four years ago, with Peter and Gen. Especially since she’s telling John, the only other person who saw first hand what was going on back then. "It doesn’t matter. I’m not seeing him again,” she says, with determination. Not after what happened this morning. “You're not mad, are you?"

 

"No, I’m not mad,” John says, after a long pause. He’s not looking directly at the camera. Lara Jean briefly considers just shrinking into a corner and dying. “I’m just a little shocked.”

 

“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you,” she says, immediately. “I just - I wasn’t thinking.”

 

“I’d say,” he grumbles, but his tone is half-joking.

 

Lara Jean smiles, utterly relieved. She really shouldn’t have been worried. John has always been even-keeled. She should’ve known he would’ve understood.

 

He had Dipti, after all.

 

“Can we change the topic now?” she asks, a little desperate. “How’s your uncle?”

 

“Yeah. Great,” John says, a little distantly, before he seems to snap out of it and says, more brightly, “It was great. He took all of us to this Cuban restaurant. Don’t ask me why we had to go all the way to Chicago to eat Cuban food.” Lara Jean giggles. “It’s freezing cold but the city is beautiful. You’d like it here.”

 

“Ugh, no, doesn’t it get super cold there?”

 

John grins. “Yeah. It’s like 10 below right now.”

 

“No way then.” Lara Jean giggles again.

 

“What? You’d look cute, bundled up like a marshmallow.” Lara Jean bursts out laughing, finally feeling a little bit better. They talk for a few more minutes before he has to go - the entire family is going to a Blackhawks game.

 

She stares up at the ceiling, legs outstretched against the wall. She knows why she was so upset at the diner now. It’s because even though their break-up hurt, she at least had good memories of Peter and their time together. Now it’s been tainted. She should’ve never answered his call - or never said that yes, they could talk that night - never suggested coffee - never not mentioned John . . .

 

“LJ! Dinner’s ready, hon!” Trina calls from the kitchen.

 

“And she managed not to burn it!” Dad calls, over Trina’s outraged laughter.

 

“Coming!” Lara Jean calls. She struggles to get up, and as her feet land on the carpet, she checks her text messages.

 

_I’m sorry too._

 

It was sent just over an hour ago. Lara Jean bites her lip, her thumb hovering over her phone. At the last second, she types in, _I know._ She puts the phone down on the nightstand, thunders down the steps. She can’t deal with him now. She won’t.

 

-tbc-


	4. Chapter 4

When Lucas calls her on New Year’s Eve, demanding they hang out so she can meet his boyfriend, Lara Jean is thrilled. The perfect distraction – John and his family are still in Chicago visiting his uncle, she hasn’t seen Lucas in a while, and she’s never met Andre, who she only knows through Instagram.

 

“Hooray!” she squeals over FaceTime. “Ooo. My grandma got me a new stash of Korean facemasks for Christmas. Want me to bring?”

 

“Girl, are you tripping? We are going _out._ ” He does a little shimmy. “Look smoking.”

 

Lara Jean laughs. “Okay, but I know you, do you still want some?”

 

“Naturally,” he says. “Pick you up at ten.”

 

“That’s so late!” She may have gotten a bit more used to the party scene in college, but still.

 

“It’s New Year’s, you dope!” he laughs.

 

She blows him a kiss, hangs up, and immediately starts digging through her closet. She even texts Chris, though she knows she’s still somewhere in the Dominican Republic. Or is it Costa Rica? She can never keep track.

 

_Guatemala, actually!_ Chris responds. _Miss you LJ but I’m getting my chakras on in the Mayan temples._

 

Lara Jean’s smile fades slightly. As much as she loves Aly and Savannah – she still misses Chris.

 

_Summer?_ she texts, impulsively. This summer – before she heads to med school. She’ll go and see Chris and they’ll have the summer of their lives. _Me, you, and Guatemala?_

 

_YESSSSS!!!!_ Chris responds with heart-eyes and kissy faces.

 

Lara Jean grins and rummages through her closet again. She finally settles on a sequined navy top, faux leather moto jacket, dark skinny jeans, and fold-over booties she covertly steals from Margot’s luggage – she’s already gone out with some high school friends, so she won’t notice. As she heads to the bathroom to grab the curling iron, she notices Kitty in her bedroom, staring up at the ceiling with her earbuds in.

 

“You’re not going out with your friends?” she asks. While Lara Jean wouldn’t call Kitty a party animal, the littlest Covey has always been the most sociable of the three of them. Being stuck home alone on New Year’s Eve is not something she would’ve done last year. Even Dad and Trina are out tonight, at one of Trina’s friend’s.

 

Kitty raises one skeptical eyebrow in her direction, then picks up her phone and puts the volume up.

 

Lara Jean says, loudly, “I thought I’d go out, bang a few guys, shoot a porno, start a meth ring. While shooting the porno. Want to come?”

 

Kitty totally ignores her.

 

Fed up, Lara Jean heads to the bathroom to work on some loose, short, waves into her hair. _I gotta talk to Margot about her,_ she resolves, plugging in the curling iron.

 

It takes some time to get her hair into place – that’s the thing she’s noticed about short hairstyles, there’s not a lot of room for error – and by the time she’s done Lucas is already at the door. She squeals when she sees him and they start jumping up and down together on the porch before she turns her attention to Andre – a little taller than Lucas, with a shaved head, and an incredibly big, dimpled smile. When they walk over to the car, she pulls Lucas back a little and gives him two OK signs, a large cheesy grin, and mouths silently, _Dayuuuuuum._

 

Lucas laughs and threads his arm through hers. “Let us be off!” he declares.

 

Lara Jean squeezes into the backseat and pretty soon they’re chattering and catching up. Andre is also at Sarah Lawrence with Lucas, and when Lara Jean mentions she applied to NYU for med school, he says to Lucas, “We need to take her to all the gay bars when she gets here.”

 

“NYU is my reach,” she laughs. “Like, so far out of reach it’s not gonna happen reach.”

 

“Alas!” Andre says, dramatically. “But you gotta come visit us sometime.”

 

“Yes,” she says. “And then we will go gay bar hopping!”

 

“Done,” Andre says. “Just pay us with magical face masks. Lucas, babe, is this seriously the place?”

 

Lara Jean peers out the backseat window. “Why are we at Greg’s?” she exclaims, panicked.

 

“Because he invited us?” Lucas says, heading to one of the few empty spots on the street. He says to Andre, “Hon, can you make sure I’m not gonna hit this car?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

“I can’t go to Greg’s.”

 

“Why not?” Lucas says, as he tries to parallel park.

 

“I . . . I don’t think . . .”

 

“Greg’s not gonna care that you’re no longer with Kavinsky,” Lucas says, kindly. Lara Jean looks at him, exasperated despite his sincere sympathy. He’s almost hit the mark on the nose, but she can’t explain everything to Lucas right now, not in front of Andre.

 

She bites her lip, looks around. There are a lot of cars – more than the usual number at one of Greg’s parties. She might not even see Peter, if she keeps to the quieter corners. She’ll go in, beg off after a while, call an Uber if she has to.

 

“Let’s just go, get this over with,” she says, rushed, and practically barges out of the car.

 

“Are all your high school friends like this?” Andre asks.

 

Inside, there are throngs of people, talking, laughing, and drinking. In the den a group of guys are getting high and playing video games, but everybody is mostly in the great room. The massive fish tank is still there, thronged in Christmas lights – the French doors to the pool are open, despite the December chill. People are even _in_ the pool, Lara Jean notes wryly – they’ve rolled up the cover and are taking turns daring each other to jump into the freezing water.

 

Nervously, she scans the partygoers as Andre disappears to go grab them drinks. No sign of Peter. She can’t even find Greg. There are people playing beer pong and pool in the games area of the great room, and that’s where they’ll most likely be, so she knows not to go anywhere near there – or the kitchen, where drinks are being passed out. When Andre comes back with margaritas she takes hers from him and practically chugs it down.

 

“Slow your roll, LJ,” Lucas says, bemused.

 

“Just thirsty,” she says.

 

She sticks close to Andre and Lucas, even though it means chatting with other people she barely knew back in high school. She keeps checking her phone for the time – she’ll leave at 11:00, she decides. Maybe 11:05 so it won’t look so obvious. Yes, 11:05. As she slides her phone into the back pocket of her jeans she sees a flash of movement – Peter.

 

_Shit._ He definitely saw her – he’s looked away, still talking to a guy she doesn’t recognize, but she knows the bend of his posture, the telltale look of being caught out.

 

Screw it. She’s leaving, _now._

 

Lara Jean turns, realizes Lucas and Andre are on her right side, not her left, turns again – and nearly upends her drink all over Genevieve’s silk dress.

 

“LJ? Hey.”

 

_Just what I needed._ “Hi,” she says, cautious. They haven’t seen each other since high school, and although she is genuinely all right with Gen, that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be careful around her.

 

Gen is looking at her, and Lara Jean looks back, not quite understanding the expression on her face. Finally, Gen says, almost nervously, “How are you?”

 

“Um . . . okay. You?”

 

“Good,” Gen replies, high-pitched. “Good.”

 

Lara Jean rocks back on her heels, takes another sip of her practically empty margarita – looks at Gen with slightly wide, expectant eyes. She’s vaguely aware that people are staring. She wonders if one of them is Peter.

 

Gen finally offers, “So. Um. Look. I just wanted to apologize.”

 

Somewhere next to Lara Jean, Lucas gives a long, quiet, “Wooooow.”

 

Lara Jean stares at Gen, mouth agape. “My therapist said if I really wanted to make strides, I should probably take the time out to say sorry to those people I hurt,” Gen says, rushed, almost as if reciting by memory. “So. I’m doing that. To you.”

 

“I . . . don’t know what to say,” Lara Jean admits, finally. Fourteen-year-old Lara Jean would’ve been flabbergasted but hailed this as the ultimate revenge and humiliation for a vanquished enemy. Sixteen-year-old Lara Jean, in the throes of jealousy and insecurity and a bad break-up, would’ve thought the same. But twenty-one-year old, about to graduate college Lara Jean is . . . still flabbergasted, but otherwise . . . There’s so much more she knows now, and there’s so much water under the bridge it might as well be the Atlantic Ocean. “Um, thank you. I accept,” she says, because that’s the only right thing to do, isn’t it?

 

Gen smiles at her, and for the first time since knowing her, Lara Jean thinks it’s a genuine one. The two exchange quiet goodbyes and she watches her disappear into the crowd of people, stopping once in a while to talk with someone who inevitably pauses as if thunderstruck. Idly, she wonders if Gen came to apologize to almost everyone at this party.

 

“Wait, was that the crazy girl you were telling me about?” Andre whispers to Lucas.

 

“The craziest,” Lucas whispers back.

 

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Lara Jean says, stunned. She takes a big gulp of her drink to wear off the shock.

 

“Chris mentioned something about her turning over a new leaf,” Lucas says. “A church group at her college. Or something.”

 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, because she says, “Well, hallelujah, because they just cured Satan.” They all clink their cups. As she downs the last of her margarita, she peers around the corner for Peter. He’s gone.

 

After that, she feels a bit more at ease. He didn’t confront her, and she’ll sweep this under the carpet like nothing’s happened. It probably helps that she’s now on her third margarita, though Lucas cuts her off when she asks Andre to get her a fourth. She even runs into Pammy on her way out of the bathroom. She finds out Pammy and Darrell aren’t together anymore – “Not for a while,” Pammy admits, “but it’s cool, we’re still friends. Great friends, actually.”

 

“Really?” Lara Jean can’t imagine that. She’s not on speaking terms with Theo – even Aly and Savannah froze him out, though Jae stuck by him. Her girlfriends have only just started talking again to Jae. And before the events of the past few weeks, she and Peter only texted to check in. They’d unfollowed each other on social media, didn’t see each other at all. In fact, at the time, she was rather glad they were in a long-distance relationship – it meant they couldn’t have any awkward run-ins. _So much for that!_

 

“Yeah, I mean, it sucked at first. But we worked through it. His new girlfriend is really great. And he likes Matt.” Pammy laughs. “We’re even spending spring break together, all of us.”

 

“What?!” Lara Jean shakes her head. “I dunno. That’s – that’s so . . .”

 

“Weird? Well, it isn’t for everybody,” Pammy admits. “But aren’t you and Peter still okay with each other, at least?”

 

“I . . .”

 

“LARGIEEEE!” Before Lara Jean even knows what’s happening, she’s swept up and thrown over Greg’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

 

“Oh my god, Greg!”

 

Pammy laughs, “Put her down, man!”

 

Greg swings her around for another moment, both of them laughing, before he sets her down. “Girl, where are my cupcakes? Why didn’t you bring me cupcakes?”

 

“Erh, sorry, I didn’t know I was coming ‘til last minute,” Lara Jean says, tucking her hair behind her ears. She’s not entirely sure what to say. When she and Peter were still together, she was always welcome at Greg’s, but when they broke up, she stopped coming to the parties he hosted over breaks. It definitely wasn’t because he said anything, but Greg and Peter were best friends through high school. There’s an unspoken line, and despite what Lucas said earlier, she wonders if she’s crossed it. “I didn’t, you know, want things to be awkward.”

 

“Awkward? Why would it be awkward?” Greg says, brows raised. _Uh-oh,_ Lara Jean realizes, recognizing that impish glee in his eyes. “This isn’t awkward at all!” He puts his hands on her shoulders, spins her around like a top, so that she’s practically nose-to-chin with someone. “Now, this? Possibly awkward. C’mon, Pammy, I need to find Darrell. Later, PK.”

 

_Fuck._ By sheer strength of self-preservation, Lara Jean forces herself to at least train her gaze somewhere near the vicinity of Peter’s face. “Hey.”

 

“Hey.” There’s a pause, before he says, “So, uh, you came.”

 

“Yeah. Lucas wanted . . . I mean, I didn’t even know until – ”

 

“Right. Gotcha.”

 

Lara Jean wishes to god Lucas didn’t cut her margaritas off. But maybe he had a reason to, because the next thing out of her mouth is, “So, um, I just saw Gen.”

 

She wants to die. She literally wants to die. Maybe the fish tank can spontaneously crack and the electric eel can slither out and zap her and take her out of her misery.

 

“Uh – yeah,” Peter stumbles, looking totally thrown. Then he pauses and says, measured, “She actually came up to me earlier. Apologized.”

 

“Yeah, same,” Lara Jean says. Peter nods. She wonders, again, if he saw them. “It was . . . weird.”

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, looking far off. “But . . . I dunno. I kinda thought she was . . .”

 

“Sincere?” she fills in.

 

He nods again. “Whatever. I’m just glad she’s doing better.”

 

Lara Jean nods, too. She tightens her arms across her chest – she hadn’t realized she’d crossed them until now. “Yeah, I am too.”

 

Peter looks at her – really looks at her, and she meets his eye – relief, there, maybe about Gen, but also his brow is furrowed, like he’s been thinking something over, and only just come to a decision.

 

“You know I didn’t go down to see you for a hook up, right?” he says, suddenly.

 

She nods, slowly, looking at the floor. “Yeah, I know.” She knew, because he honestly hadn’t sounded well over the phone – and she knew, because despite everything, perhaps because of everything, she could never really be bitter towards him, or treat him unkindly.

 

And, she knows, deep within her, a secret sort of knowledge that only comes from time and age, that it’s the same for him – towards her.

 

“Look - I just ... want to be cool with each other, again,” he says. “That’s all. I - well ... I’ve missed you.”

 

And just like that, the heaviness in her chest lifts. He’s always known how to say the right thing. Lara Jean nods, almost stupidly happy. He grins back, like the sunshine’s come out. It’s all so very, incredible simple, she thinks, and she’s so very relieved.

 

“I can be cool with you. I am cool with you!” she says, brightly. Peter’s grin widens, open and easy, and she laughs. “Like a freaking cucumber!”

 

This makes him laugh too, full-bellied. She wonders how drunk he is, if he’s as tipsy as her. His eyes are perhaps a bit too bright, jumping from red-rimmed whites, and he’s flushed. Her cheeks feel hot, too.

 

“I’m sorry about Greg,” he says. “He didn’t warn me, either – ”

 

“No, I know, I know how he is – ”

 

“He’s just . . .”

 

“On crack?”

 

“God, _yes,_ ” he exclaims, rolling his eyes, and she giggles.

They start to talk more easily now, about what shows they’re watching (“C’mon, I can’t believe you haven’t seen _Bird Box_ yet.” “It’s horror, Peter, no way!” “But you love Sandra Bullock.” “Yeah, when she’s working undercover as a beauty pageant contestant and making out with Benjamin Bratt! Or plotting to steal diamonds with Cate Blanchett!” “You _would_ name those two movies.” “What’s wrong with those movies?!” “Uh, her best work is clearly _Speed . . ._ Covey. Covey, Covey, Covey, please tell me you’ve seen _Speed_.” “ . . . I know _of_ it . . .” “Oh my _god_ , Covey!”). And they talk about what they’re doing for spring break. Peter tells her he and his friends are thinking about something big (“Go big or go home”), and she laughs and is about to tell him Margot and Ravi moved the wedding date up, when the music cuts out suddenly and people start counting. Lara Jean doesn’t even register the change until she hears the crowd get to “ _Six!_ ” and she looks up at Peter. He shrugs, sheepish, and when the partygoers get to “One! _HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!_ ” she stands on tiptoe, and he dips his head.

 

She presses a kiss to the side of his mouth, falls back on her heels. Or at least, she tries to. Except he’s got a finger curled in the belt loop of her jeans – liked he used to do, to hold her close – and she ends up stumbling forward, hands braced against his chest. His other hand is splayed across her hip, one finger just grazing the bare skin of her side – electric, hot – where her top has ridden up, the others curled almost precariously close to her behind. She feels, rather than hears, him inhale, sharp, quick – and she pulls back a fraction. His eyes are hooded, she can’t see his expression because their faces are too close together, but his lashes flicker, and she realizes – he’s looking at her mouth.

 

“Cucumber,” she whispers.

 

“Whu - ?” he murmurs, and before he can lean in again – before _she_ can – Lara Jean takes a deliberate step back.

 

“Happy new year,” she says, her voice as level as she can make it.

 

Peter seems to have snapped out of it as well. He meets her gaze and says, “Happy new year.”

 

She nods once and turns on her heel, pushes through the crowd to find Lucas. New Year, new start. Everything will be put to right in just another day. She’ll go back to school. She’ll see John. Peter and she will go back to their lives and they’ll forget everything that happened here, what almost happened. Everything will go back to normal.

 

-tbc-


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes back to normal . . .

 

Everything goes back to normal when Peter gets back to school.

 

Well, almost normal.

 

Lacrosse season starts up officially, and he’s mostly busy with that. They probably won’t make it to the playoffs this time – too many of their best players graduated last year – but that doesn’t mean Coach won’t give them hell all the way through. It’s a daily grind, eased only by the fact that he was smart enough to choose easy classes for his last semester of college.

 

And then one day, not long after school starts up again, he’s slowly getting ready to get to practice, scrolling through his Instagram feed, when he sees Kitty’s posted her acceptance e-mail from Sweet Briar. He knows it’s her safety, but it’s still a great thing to know you’re going at least somewhere, and he grins and types in _Congrats kid!!!_ Then he pauses, sees a handle who’s also posted a congratulations that he doesn’t recognize automatically until he peers closer.

 

 **kittymeowcovey**          Officially college bound. #sweetbriar #vixeniguess???

 **greengablesbaker** YAAAAAS. My baby sis is going to college! Barnard is next baby! #fingerscrossed

 

He hadn’t realized Lara Jean had changed her Instagram handle. But, he supposes, that’s what you get when you don’t follow each other for two years. Peter’s thumb hovers over the phone. On one hand, he meant it – he wants to be cool with Covey again. On the other hand, he really doesn’t want to refollow her and be inundated with perfectly filtered shots of her and McClaren together. Because – no. Pass. He doesn’t want to remember what almost happened on New Year’s Eve.

 

_Ugh. Quit being such a pussy about it._

 

He presses Follow. Tosses his phone into his duffel bag and heads to practice. Then fishes it out again in a moment of panic to check his own account for anything incriminating. There are definitely old pics of him and Melissa, and more recently, him and Casey, up there that he never bothered to delete. But nothing _too_ bad.

 

Okay. Cool.

 

She’s followed him back by the time he gets to practice. He manages to scroll through some of her feed while prepping his gear. Her Instagram is still unmistakably Lara Jean – nature shots, some selfies with her friends, and more often than not, baking posts, because, of course. There _are_ a few of her with McClaren, though, which he forces himself to speed by like lightning. He also stops himself from going too far back into her feed, because he’s not a stalker, _god._ And he doesn’t want to now if she deleted their old pictures.

 

Or if she kept them.

 

Instead, he goes back to her latest post – cinnamon swirl pound cake – and starts typing something in – reconsiders, because he doesn’t want to cause her trouble with McClaren – reconsiders _again_ , because fuck it, this is completely innocent, who cares if McClaren notices, the jackass – then gives up and hits MESSAGE on her profile. Types in a waving hand emoji and _Thanks for the follow. See ya around._ Then he closes his Instagram, slides his phone back into his duffel, and joins his teammates on the field.

 

*

 

Everything, unfortunately, does not go back to normal.

 

There’s the whirlwind of more med school interviews, and trying to keep up with all her classes when she’s missing them all the time. Fortunately her professors are understanding, but it’s all a bit much to handle.

 

And then there’s John, who, she _knows_ is being distant. They still go to the movies - out to dinner - hang out with each others' friends - study. An ice-skating date where she nearly bruises her entire ass and she accidentally dumps luke-warm hot chocolate all over his favorite UNC scarf ends up with lots of laughter, and her cuddling with him in his bed later that night. As they have sex, she thinks - _Finally. Everything's okay again._ But the next morning, the invisible wall is back, in full force.

 

At first she thinks it’s because of Peter, but John insists it’s not the case. She believes him, because, in a fit of guilt over running into Peter at Greg’s – after explicitly promising she wouldn’t see him again – she tells John all about it (and leaves out what almost happened at the countdown, though). And John? Doesn’t really react.

 

“I trust you,” he says, simply.

 

That would probably make any other girl abundantly happy, but somehow it only makes Lara Jean feel more guilty. And off. Something’s off and it’s not just about Peter.

 

“Look, I feel like I screwed things up,” she says one night, when she can’t stand it any longer. “And I’d like to know how to fix it.”

 

John looks at her, blank, Chinese take-out forgotten. “Screwed things up? How?”

 

“You know. Peter.”

 

He huffs out a laugh, and maybe she’s imagining it, maybe not, but there’s a little bit of bitterness there. “No, why? I get it. He was your first love. Everybody has that.”

 

He doesn’t say Dipti’s name, but Lara Jean sits back against the couch. When they started hanging out – before they started officially dating, but somewhere in that grey area when late night study sessions were transitioning to coffee breaks and dinner without books and laptops, they told each other what happened with their past significant others. Not, what John somewhat laughingly called, the in-between people. And she knew then, instinctively, what he was getting at. And so she glanced over Theo – brief, to the point, just like their relationship – and then, of course, she told him about Peter, how it was gradual. How it happened before she even realized it had already happened. “There wasn’t some grand, dramatic argument,” she’d admitted. “It was quiet. We were okay with it. We text still, sometimes, too.”

 

John had nodded, and then he told her about a girl he started seeing after he transferred here, but that had ended pretty quickly. “Dipti and me, though . . .” She’d been baffled. In middle school, John was quiet, a bit shy and nervous – but in high school, he seemed unflappable, his quietness making him seem sure and steady. Now, he just wasn’t. It was so jarring. “Her parents liked me enough, I guess. I mean, for a black guy.” Lara Jean’s lips quirked, at that. “But her grandfather was really strict – really traditional. So we, you know, kept it quiet. I think her parents guessed but they didn’t say anything.” John shrugged, looked off. “Then she got into Ann Arbor and you and I both know how much out of state tuition costs. And her grandfather paid for her sister’s and her brother’s colleges. Somehow . . .” His voice turned harder here, brittle. “ . . . he found out, mid-way through freshman year. Still don’t know how. Anyway, he threatened to cut her off. It was already long-distance, and already hard on both of us, so . . .” He shrugged again, and said, matter-of-fact, resigned, “I wasn’t gonna get in the way of her dream.”

 

Maybe that was the turning point, when that grey _what if?_ area became a bit more clear. It was so good to know that he understood . . . that he got it, in the simple, easy way only John could – that they both loved someone so much, so completely, and still _had_ to walk away. That he knew there was a bruise on her heart that faded, but in some way was still there.

 

Still. Today? Now? She’s always thought of him as her good, sweet, knight in shining armor. In retrospect, it’s a bit disconcerting to realize, suddenly – retroactively – that he might have been someone else’s, too.

 

“So, if you understand about Peter,” she says, now, “then what’s wrong? I feel like ever since winter break we’ve been . . . well . . .”

 

John heaves a big sigh, then puts down his carton of lo-mein. She sets hers down and crawls over, sits on his lap and puts her head on his shoulder. It takes a while, her heart skidding and stopping the entire time.

 

“You’re right. Um, there has been something I’ve been thinking about.”

 

“Okay.” She pulls away to look at him.

 

He worries his lip in between his teeth, then meets her gaze. “It’s . . . you didn’t you apply to any med schools in Illinois, right?”

 

“No, you know I didn’t.” Only in North Carolina, because she genuinely loves it out here. And NYU, but there’s no way they’ll accept her there. It had been Margot’s suggestion to at least try.

 

“Okay, is it too late to?”

 

“Why are you asking this?”

 

John hesitates, then says, “Uncle Dan? He knows Senator Ramirez. He interviewed me while we were in Chicago. Completely left field. He offered me a job as one of his aides, after graduation.”

 

Her jaw drops, ecstatic. “John! That’s great! That’s amazing! Oh my god. That’s – ” She stops, the realization hitting her full-on.

 

Illinois. That’s not a few hours drive away. That’s a _plane_ ride away.

 

“Yup,” John says, with a wan smile. He drums his knee with his fingers. “So . . . is it too late to apply to Illinois schools?”

 

“I mean . . .” Lara Jean fumbles. Her head is spinning slightly – it’s like she’s got whiplash. Now she’s thinking that this was the real reason why he forgave her so quickly, this secret. “I’m pretty sure it is. All the ones I applied to have December deadlines.”

 

John nods, mouth pinched. “I kinda figured.” Then he takes a deep breath, puts on a cheery face. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” she murmurs, as he kisses her. His mouth is reassuring, gentle, but she’s reeling once again, with uncertainty.

 

-tbc-


	6. Chapter 6

“And so, if the central drama of the play is Brutus, and his struggle with the conflicting demands of honor and patriotism . . .”

 

Peter shrinks lower into the lecture seat, zoning Professor Stein out as he surfs the web for hostels on his laptop. He and DeMarcus only took this Intro to Shakespeare class because they needed to finish their credits before graduation, and he’s not too concerned about his grade here. All the law schools he applied to will ask for a final transcript, but they’re really basing their decision on his previous grades and LSAT score.

 

What he _is_ concerned with is trying to find a place that’s cheap, and clean, and won’t totally freak Deanna and Lily out – they all watched the _Hostel_ series on a whim during Halloween, and since then, the girls have been adamant that they find a place that’s safe. Which is fine by him, because he doesn’t find the idea of being murdered in Portugal during their last ever spring break too appealing, either.

 

Problem is finding some place cheap. The plane tickets to Portugal were fucking ridiculous.

 

He pauses when he feels his phone buzz.

 

_Are you kidding me? That’s all horror._

 

He grins to himself, then types in, _There’s some romcom stuff in there, believe it or not. You love the ‘80’s. It’s all about the ‘80s,_ before he locks his phone and gets back to looking for hostels. He finds a few places, copies the link into his gchat, and messages DeMarcus. _What about these?_ When he doesn’t get an answer right away, he glances over to his left. DeMarcus has his gmail open, but he’s not paying attention to the lecture, or his gchat.

 

_Holy shit._

 

Peter reaches over and flicks DeMarcus’s ear. He jumps, startled – when he turns to look, Peter just waggles his eyebrows at him, and then at his laptop screen. Caught, DeMarcus exits out of the tab and brings up his Word doc with his Intro to Shakespeare notes.

 

Peter stifles a laugh and starts messaging him again on gchat, rapid-fire.

 

_Is that what I think those are?_

_Answer me, dickhead!_

_Yo!_

_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

DeMarcus pointedly closes his gmail.

 

Peter picks up his phone and starts texting him.

 

_Fucker! Tell me I was seeing things._

_Dude!_

_Don’t leave me hanging._

_Were those engagement rings? For real? Are you seriously proposing to Lily?_

 

Around them, people begin to pack up their stuff. “If you tell her, I will fucking kill you,” DeMarcus almost snarls, shoving his laptop into his backpack.

 

Peter raises his hands, laughing. “Dude, don’t worry. I’m good. I’m just, you know, surprised.”

 

At this, DeMarcus looks at him, confused. “Why? When you know, you know.”

 

Peter scratches the back of his head, suddenly uncomfortable.

 

(He thought he knew, too.)

 

“I dunno, you guys are young,” he fumbles, finally.

 

DeMarcus shrugs. “My parents got married when they were eighteen.”

 

“What?!”

 

“When you know, you know,” DeMarcus says, simply. As they file out of the lecture hall, he pauses. “Well, at least I know. Does Lily know?” He suddenly looks panicked, like the thought honestly hadn’t occurred to him.

 

“Well, how the hell would I know?” Peter says. The panic seems to multiply on DeMarcus’s face. “Blakeman, I was joking. Ask Deanna if you’re really worried. But yeah, I think Lily does.”

 

DeMarcus nods quickly, seemingly a little bit calmed. “I’m gonna need your help like last time,” he says.

 

“ _Now?_ ”

 

“No, man, not now!” he exclaims, exasperated. “I can’t even afford the ring now. The plane tickets drained my wallet.”

 

Peter shrugs. “Yeah, sure,” he says. His phone buzzes – Owen’s calling. “I’ll see you at lunch, I gotta take this.”

 

“Later,” DeMarcus calls, heading down the hall to the exit. “Remember! Tell her –”

 

“And I’m a dead man!” Peter calls back, unlocking his phone. “Hey, what’s up?”

 

“ _I got into Purdue!!!!_ ” Owen yells so loudly Peter has to pull the phone away from his ear.

 

“Holy shit, that’s amazing!” he yells back, pumping his fist. Several people in the after-class rush swirling around him turn to stare and he goes back to playing cool.

 

“I wanted to tell you before I started posting,” Owen says.

 

“Aw, man, this is great. Congratulations, bud. I’ll come back this weekend. We’ll go and celebrate.”

 

“Thanks,” Owen says, laughing. Then he says, a bit more subdued, “I mean, they didn’t give me much money, but . . .”

 

Peter winces. “Yeah, well, maybe the others will,” he says, trying to reassure him. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

“Yeah, yeah I guess,” Owen says, as if he’s too excited to really register what Peter’s saying. In the background, Peter hears metallic slamming and chatter and then the shrill clang of Adler High’s bell. “I gotta go!” Owen hangs up before Peter can say anything, and he laughs as he heads to the dining hall in search of DeMarcus.

 

His phone buzzes, and he thinks it’s Owen again, until he sees it’s a text.

 

 _Then how come the Wikipedia entry says “Stranger Things is an American science fiction-horror web series”? I rest my case, counselor._ Followed by a winky-face.

 

Peter’s smile fades – he slides his phone into his back jeans pocket and continues walking to the dining hall, pensive. _What are you doing, man?_ They’ve been texting back and forth for a few weeks now, and it’s not like when they were dating long-distance – because _no_ – but he likes to think he’s smart enough to recognize what’s going on here, at least on his end. Lara Jean, he’s not sure about. She’s always been so . . . so . . . so _dense_ , at least when it comes to things like this. When they were younger, in a way, it was almost agonizingly delightful – it kept him on his toes, kept him guessing, enthralling and exciting.

 

(Still is.)

 

But there’s also the McClaren-sized elephant in the room. In middle school, Peter had known McClaren liked Covey, but it really didn’t matter back then, because he moved away, and Peter started dating Gen, and while all the events are muddled, and he really can’t remember what happened first or last or in between, it was, in the end, just middle school. Kid stuff. But when high school rolled around, and things started imploding with Gen and Lara Jean, McClaren had swooped in like some – some vulture – okay, not true, but still . . . Peter’s not intimidated now, because he doesn’t have the right to be, but back then? Yeah. McClaren being around pissed him off. Scared him, even. Because he saw the way Lara Jean had looked at that little punk and he knew, with all the conviction of a teenage kid who knew that he fucked up and what he missed out on, what that look meant.

 

So, if Lara Jean’s happy . . . then . . . yeah . . . He’ll be cool with it, and her.

 

Peter spots Eric and DeMarcus in the line for food, heads towards them, even though his mood has soured. He’ll blame DeMarcus and this whole possibly-engaged-by-graduation thing with Lily. _What is that guy even on – when you know, you know? Really._

That weekend, he goes home and Mom takes them and Sami out for Mexican. Owen and Sami are doing the lovestruck thing, and Mom’s rolling her eyes good-naturedly, but Peter can tell something’s bothering her. Probably the money.

 

“Hey,” he says, quiet, when they get back home for the night. “I can still cancel the plane tickets. I’ll take a hit with the fees, but if Owen needs the money . . .”

 

“Oh, Peter, it isn’t that,” Mom says, sighing. She puts a kettle on to make some tea, rubs the back of her neck. “And, I appreciate the gesture. But don’t ruin your last spring break. It’s not going to make much of a dent, anyway.”

 

“So, then, what’s up?”

 

Mom frowns, then looks up at him. “When you’d get so tall, kid?”

 

“Eighth grade,” he quips. “Stop deflecting.”

 

She sighs, and says, “There’s something I got to tell you. Don’t get upset, okay? Something came up with Dad.”

 

*

 

They’re not talking. Well, they _are_ , but not with the same ease as before. Like, they used to binge watch old shows on Netflix together and talk throughout, little observations here and there, like making fun of 2000’s clothing styles and hair, but now it’s quiet except for the noise on the tv and she finds herself checking to see if John’s on his phone.

 

She just keeps thinking about Peter. Not, like, getting back together. (Really.) But she keeps thinking she went and followed her heart to her dream school, something she has never regretted, despite having her dream boy. And they tried to stay together. They really, honestly, truly tried.

 

It still didn’t work. And if it didn’t work with Peter, her first love, well . . . would it really work with John?

 

And it makes her feel terrible, because she really loves John. She loves how his serious, deep brown eyes light up when he laughs. How, when she finished her MCATs and didn’t want to celebrate, or think about it, or talk about it, just collapse – she came home to find him with Thai food and a bouquet of flowers and he let her fall sleep on him while he played with her hair. How, whether he’s talking about the state of international politics or the Orioles or old episodes of _The West Wing_ , his whole face gets into it – the jaw tick, the flicker of his lashes.

 

(Horribly, she thinks about Theo – and hates him, again – how he’s made her think in black and white, cynic practicalities now.)

 

But there’s this yawning distance between her and John now, that’s undeniable and awful and just weird, and it doesn’t take a genius to remember why it’s so familiar.

 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she frets to Savannah, one night after John goes back to his apartment early after they spend an entire night not talking. “Of course this was gonna end this way. We didn’t even really talk about what we were gonna do after graduation. I don’t know why we didn’t. We just – were just having so much fun and . . . ” She pauses. “And of course I’m gonna talk about this as if it’s the end, already.”

 

Savannah points her spoon of cookies and cream ice-cream at Lara Jean. “Okay. You? Have got to quit this whole thing.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“This down in the dumps, depressed thing. It’s not a good look on you. You went to pieces sophomore year with that first dude. And, at least with Theo you were angry. Angry was a better look. Feisty.”

 

Lara Jean rolls her eyes.

 

Savannah takes a bite of ice-cream, swallows and says, “Do you want to be with John?”

 

Lara Jean looks at her. “Of course I do.”

 

“Really? Because Aly tells me you’re talking to that guy again, the one from high school.”

 

“We’re just texting. That’s it,” Lara Jean says. Sav raises her brows, spoon in her mouth. “Okay, we followed each other again on Instagram. But nothing else.” She’d ignored the hello from Peter, but liked a few photos of his since then, just to make sure that he didn’t feel like she was _actually_ ignoring him. In a simply Herculean display of self-control, she didn’t scroll through his feed earlier than this past Thanksgiving. She doesn’t want to know about him and Melissa and that – Chelsea? Kylie? – girl, even if they’ve broken up long ago. Honestly.

 

“Texting or sexting?”

 

“ _Texting_ Sav, who do you think I am?” A little more frequent than the once in a blue moon “hey, how are yous” they’ve exchanged in the past, a little more friendly – like how’s lacrosse going . . . has she heard back from med school yet . . . has he heard back from law school . . . did she finally watch _Bird Box_ . . . no, but he should definitely watch _Miss Congeniality_ – but definitely, unequivocally sex free.

 

“Okay, noted, noted.” Sav holds up four fingers. “Then, when it comes to John, you only really have four options. A – ask him to stay here.”

 

“That’s not an option. That’s a non-option,” Lara Jean says.

 

“How is that a non-option? That’s a completely valid option!”

 

“It’s a hypocritical option. I can’t ask him to give up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That’s insane.”

 

Savannah shifts on the couch, shrugs her shoulders. “Is it really? Why can’t get a job as an aide to some political dude here? And how is it hypocritical?”

 

Lara Jean shakes her head – Savannah’s never been into politics, and Lara Jean only really knows because of John. Senator Ramirez is influential, up-and-coming rising star in government. It really is a dream opportunity. And it’s hypocritical, because . . . because well, she couldn’t ask Peter to transfer to UNC, and she didn’t. She’s not going to ask John to stay back for her, either.

 

“Fine. Whatever. Then there’s option B – you transfer over there in a year.”

 

Lara Jean takes a deep breath. “It’s so far,” she murmurs.

 

“You applied to NYU! That’s far, too!”

 

“No, it’s only five hours from my family,” she counters. “I’ve done the trip before.” Senior year of high school. It’s the entire reason why she even considered applying to NYU, almost on a whim. (Well, that, and free tuition for all med students.) She literally had Alicia Keys pumping on her phone while she was filling out the application. “And besides, no way I’m getting in.”

 

Savannah gives her an arched look. “Okay. Well, option C – you move there with him, rescind all your med school applications, reapply to Illinois ones once you get there.”

 

Lara Jean shakes her head, firm. “No. No way. What would I even _do_ during that time? Play housewife? Besides, that’s almost exactly what my mom did, and look what happened.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“She never got to finish her masters. She always wanted to be a professor. She married my dad, she ended up getting pregnant with Margot, and then me, and she ended up just supporting his career. Then, when she was ready to go back to school, Kitty came along. And then . . .” And it never happened. The accident happened, and Mom . . . After her death, Lara Jean had grown up thinking about her own loss, her family’s loss. It wasn’t until she got older, went to college, started experiencing life outside of the bubble of her family, that she began to really grasp the scope of her mother’s own loss, her own missed opportunities. Mom never fulfilled that dream of hers. Which was probably one of the reasons why Dad always, firmly emphasized higher education with all three of his daughters – and why to Lara Jean, seeing through this dream, of hers, is so critical.

 

Sav gazes at her, sympathetic and admiring. “Okay. Okay, no option C. Then there’s always option D.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“Break up with him.” She sets the ice-cream bowl on the table with a clink. “And are you willing to do that?”

 

Lara Jean gapes at her, shocked at being presented the facts so baldly. Sav crosses her arms and looks at her a bit more kindly now. “LJ, I love you, hon, but . . . either you make a decision and commit – or you walk away. Otherwise, you’ll just be unhappy. And I don’t want to see you unhappy.” She looks Lara Jean in the eye, tosses her thick red braid over her shoulder. “Do you want to be with John?”

 

“Yes,” Lara Jean says, on reflex – automatic, instinctual. Because John is her knight in shining armor, who showed her all different possibilities, who drove her away not on a white steed but a classic Mustang, who took all her pain away and bottled it into something pretty, and beautiful. And he’s her present, he’s real, in front of her – not a memory, trapped in perfect, pristine form, forever in a glass globe to take out and remember fondly.

 

He’s not a shadow from high school, beloved and cherished and far away . . .

 

“Then go get ‘im, tiger,” Sav says, with a small smile.

 

Lara Jean just gapes at her, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. Because Sav makes it all sound like it's so simple, and it really isn't, is it?

 

-tbc-


	7. Chapter 7

It’s a surprisingly nice day for February – blue skies, barely any clouds, and the air is crisp but without any bite to it. Lara Jean shivers though, and pulls her coat closer to her, before she walks up the steps to John’s apartment complex. She presses the buzzer, waits, and pulls the door open once she hears the click.

 

John’s apartment door is open a crack, and she pushes it all the way open. “Hey,” she calls softly.

 

“Hey,” he calls back, from the kitchen. “Want some popcorn?”

 

“No, thanks,” she says, hanging her coat up. His roommates don’t look like they’re in. Good. Not that she minds – she likes Danny and Virun, but she really needs to talk to John, alone.

 

She takes a seat on the couch, thumbs off her shoes, and folds her legs underneath her. John’s still puttering about in the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

 

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

 

“Dull movie day if you’re not snacking.”

 

“I’m good.”

 

John comes in, sets a bowl of popcorn and a can of beer on the table. He plops down next to her. “So, do you want to try _Stranger Things_?” he asks.

 

Lara Jean nearly jumps out of her seat.

 

“What?” he asks, turning the television on.

 

“I – no. No, not that one.”

 

“Too scary?”

 

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “John – I – we need to talk about Chicago.”

 

John turns the television off, rubs his jaw. He sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, profile hunched. “Yeah,” he sighs, “think we do.”

 

Lara Jean purses her lips, heart thudding. She’d come here, just wanting to talk it through, figure things out, all the while not knowing what to say. She says, “I thought about it a lot. About staying here, or maybe transferring later, or . . . anyway . . .”

 

She swallows, then says, “I’ll go to Chicago with you,” – the exact same time he says, “I don’t think you should come with me.” They look at each other, blank, for a second. She can hear herself blinking.

 

“Well, that was kinda unexpected,” Lara Jean says, deadpan.

 

John murmurs, stunned and awkward, “Uh, yeah.”

 

Lara Jean pauses. Her face feels red. It’s like she slipped on a banana peel and is staring up at the ceiling, wondering why she can see little birds flying in circles around her head. “So why don’t you want me to come? Is it because of what happened with Peter?” The fact that she might’ve hurt John – again – makes a sour lump in the back of her throat. She never wanted that.

 

The fact that John may not want her, is making the lump even larger.

 

“Yes, and no.” He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m not gonna lie to you. It did get me thinking about things. Especially when you didn’t say you would come at first – or when you didn’t say you wanted _me_ to stay. It’s just – not in the way you think.” He pauses, then says, “It’s like what you told me. In the car? Back in high school?” Lara Jean eyes him – he’s a little jittery, nervous. She remembers that conversation, because it’d been so awful. “You said Kavinsky - he got there first, and just wouldn’t leave.”

 

John stops, bites his lip, and then looks at her kindly. “She didn’t get there first, but I think that’s the way with me and - and Dipti.”

 

“Oh,” she says, stunned. _Well._ And then, a little more loudly, with understanding, “Oh.”

 

Because. Because she does understand. It clicks.

 

Still hurts, though.

 

“I’m sorry, LJ,” he says, with a tepid, small smile, and she shakes her head rapidly, because she doesn’t want him to feel bad.

 

“Don’t be,” she says. “I get it.” She laughs a little. The irony of this situation is just beginning to fully dawn on her. “I totally get it.”

 

His answering smile is wry. “I kinda thought you would.” He stands up, and she follows, and he says, opening up his arms for a hug, “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” she says, squeezing him about the waist, and she knows he means it, just not in that way - because she means it, too, also in not that way. Margot once said that she was in love with the idea of love, and that it was part of her charm. Lara Jean had agreed, back then.

 

But now she’s not so sure. Maybe some people have one and onlys, and maybe some people have lots of loves. Lara Jean? She’s beginning to think she’s a mix of both kinds of people, and that John may be, too.

 

She loved Theo, however brief, however fiery an end, because he helped her through a rough time. She loves John because he was the boy who almost asked her to the eighth grade formal - because he was the boy who she had a snow ball fight with, who drove her away from USO party in a classic Mustang, who took her away from a lot of pain and confusion. Who made her see possibilities when she thought there weren’t any.

 

But he’s also not her one and only, just like she’s not his.

 

She pulls away slightly to look at him – touches her fingers, light, to his chin, his mouth, as tender as she can. “Are you gonna go for it?” she asks, softly.

 

And her heart squeezes, not without pain, but with fondness, knowing that he understands immediately what she’s asking. “Yeah,” he admits, his kind eyes gentling even more. Then he huffs a tiny laugh. “Well, if she’ll even talk to me. She was mad at me when we broke it off. Might have to do some groveling.”

 

She wants to ask what about her grandfather, what if Dipti says no, what if – but she doesn’t, because she wants to wish them well, she wants to hope for the very best for John, this boy who deserves every kindness in the world, even as her own heart is breaking.

 

So Lara Jean does just that – kisses him one last time, open-mouthed, brief, but full of love. “Good luck to you two.”

 

And John looks down knowingly at her, in the way that he always does when he just understands, instantly, and kisses her back on the forehead. “Same.”

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive comments and kudos, everybody. I haven't been able to respond to much lately. I apologize for the slow burn - the way I've been writing this story is against my normal method (which is write the entire thing, start to finish, divide into chapters if too long, and publish each part after they've been polished). This time I'm writing as I go, and I've only finished 65% of it - so parts are a bit chopped up more than I'd like. Not trying to delay things on purpose, basically. 
> 
> Also, I know people don't like John a lot, but I adore the kid, so be kind, eh? :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the chapter number count - I thiiiink that'll be it.

“So . . . when are you telling Peter?”

 

“What? Why would I tell Peter?” Lara Jean asks, tapping at the edges of the face mask to keep it in place.

 

Over FaceTime, Margot looks at her as if she’s a dumbass. “Because . . .?”

 

Lara Jean sighs. “I don’t think now is the right time,” she says, honestly. “And, you know . . . I _just_ broke up with John.”

 

“It’s been weeks.”

 

Lara Jean frowns, unhappy. And a miserable three weeks, too. She’d finished all her interviews – the waiting game for acceptances, or rejections, has been excruciating. “Excuse me if I want to nap for ten hours at a time and eat my body weight in ice-cream,” she sniffs.

 

“Well, don’t, I don’t want a depressed little sister who can’t fit into her maid of honor dress,” Margot quips, archly.

 

“Bridezilla,” Lara Jean mutters, not without affection. “Besides, hanboks are really forgiving.”

 

“Sarees aren’t,” Margo reminds her. “Well, _if_ we wear sarees.”

 

“You _still_ haven’t decided?” It’s not like Margot to be so indecisive. Distracted by the idea of wedding planning, Lara Jean leaps it into the discussion head on. “You wear a hanbok. Ravi and the groomsmen wear kurtas. Me and Kitty will wear something American-British-mayo-whatever. It’ll look super international. Just make sure all the colors coordinate.” She pauses. “Ooo. I wanna wear a fascinator. Can we wear fascinators? Will those look weird if we’re not wearing one of those coat dress thingies Kate and Meghan always wear?” She wants to pull up Pinterest right now to find out.

 

Margot’s eyes light up, but she says, slightly deflated, “I dunno. Ravi’s grandparents were really disappointed we decided not to do the whole three-day Indian wedding extravaganza. And Grandma was upset we’re just doing an Anglican ceremony.”

 

“So what?” Lara Jean exclaims, enflamed now. “This is your wedding! Stop trying to please everyone! Do what _you_ want!”

 

“You know what?” Margot says, getting excited. “You’re right!”

 

“Of course I’m right!”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“ _Yeah_!”

 

They shake their fists at each other through FaceTime and burst into triumphant giggles. When they calm down, Margot eyes her cautiously. “Well, I guess John’s no longer invited. Maybe I’ll keep the spot open though for the meal?”

 

Lara Jean rolls her eyes. She knows her sister isn’t talking about keeping a spot open for John. “Margot. For all you know, Peter’s dating someone else right now.”

 

“Well, that’s easily verified,” Margot says, practically. “You’re following each other on Instagram now.”

 

“Yeah, but I purposely avoid looking at his.”

 

Margot gives her a knowing look. “Okay, well, ask Kitty.”

 

“No! I don’t want her getting a whiff of this. She’ll meddle, she’ll plot, who knows what the hell she’ll do . . . Swear, you’re not telling her any of this.”

 

“Okay, okay . . .”

 

“Swear!”

 

“I swear! Geez. Well, maybe ask one of his friends?”

 

“ _No!_ Mortifying!”

 

“Okay, ask him.”

 

“ _God_ _no!!!_ ”

 

“ _Lara Jean!_ ” Margot almost snaps. “Why not? Even if he is – so what? You guys were crazy about each other. You loved each other. I find it really hard to believe that he wouldn’t, you know . . .”

 

Lara Jean shakes her head, looks away from the camera. “It’s not that,” she says, and gives her an excuse about having to go and study.

 

It’s hard to explain. She’s not sure why she’s acting this way, either. It’s so many things to think about, to unpack – about med school, about John, about agreeing to go to Chicago on basically a whim when she didn’t do it before, with Peter . . . and when she didn’t even really _want_ to go to Chicago . . . about doing things long-distance . . . about knowing, deep in her, what she really wants, but not seeing a way around it all . . .

 

And – she’s not even sure how Peter would react. She’s not stupid. When they were in high school, and everything came to a head with her and Peter and Gen and John it was just a disaster. At the time, in a strange, childish way, it felt nice to be the object of jealousy – vindicated, that Peter felt something of the anger and pain she felt when she saw him with Gen. But when she drove away with John in that car, after Peter had given her back the necklace, she’d been mortified. It wasn’t until now, a little time and distance and age, that she knew exactly why – she’d made Peter feel like he was second best . . . something _she_ knew, first-hand, was so awful, when he never was.

 

How would he feel now, if she suddenly called him, let him know that she still loved him . . . but only after _she_ got dumped?

 

Thank goodness for the AASA bake sale. She’s almost been beside herself, unmoored over the breakup and thinking about Peter and waiting for med school acceptances notices, when Tommy Fang asks her if she wouldn’t mind contributing. “Look, I know, you’ve probably got senioritis and you’re not secretary anymore so might not want to bother – ”

 

“I’ll do it,” she accepts, readily.

 

“You sure?” Tommy asks, skeptical. She kind of wants to pinch his cheeks – he’s such a nice kid, and eager to be the very best president in the history of AASA presidents. It’s adorable. “I mean, you don’t have to do _all_ of it, just, you know, some cookies or something – ”

 

“Ten boxes of sugar cookies okay?” she asks, already mentally tallying up the amount of flour she’ll need.

 

“Uh.” Tommy’s eyes widen in surprise. “Let me talk to Kalpana, I’m sure we’ve got some money in the treasury to pay you back for all the supplies – ”

 

Lara Jean practically waves him off. She’ll do some cupcakes too. It’ll keep her nice and busy and distracted today.

 

She’s elbow deep in sugar cookies, on batch number six, batches one through four cooling on anything clean and flat in their small kitchen, when someone buzzes them to be let in. “Al, can you get that?” Lara Jean calls, giving the mixer another pulse.

 

“On it.” She barely hears her roommate buzz the person in – later, a knock on their door, and some chattering. Then - “LJ? There’s some guy for you here.”

 

Lara Jean, engrossed on checking batch number five’s progress in the oven, doesn’t even look up. “Who is it?”

 

“Um . . .” Aly walks into the kitchen. “It’s like, an older dude.”

 

“Huh?” Lara Jean straightens, unties her apron. The only person who’d come to mind is . . . “Daddy?” she calls, walking into the narrow hall, worried. Something must’ve happened. _Trina or oh my god Gogo or Kitty -_

 

No, not her father.

 

Peter’s.

 

She hasn’t seen him since . . . well, that one time she met him. He looks much the same – just like Peter, maybe a bit shorter, grey in his curly dark hair. The warm smile is just like Peter’s too. It’s disconcerting.

 

“Hi – Mr. Kavinsky. Um, is something wrong?” A slice of concern goes through her – maybe something _is_ wrong, something terrible. “Is Peter . . .?”

 

“No, no, no, nothing’s wrong at all,” he says, blithe, and shakes her hand. Lara Jean holds his limply, confused. “I just wanted to pay a visit. I needed to speak with you, about Peter.”

 

“I –“ Lara Jean swallows, looks at Aly, who’s watching surreptitiously from the living room. “I don’t know what that could be.”

 

Mr. Kavinsky gestures at Aly. She shifts on her feet, lifts her chin – Lara Jean gives her a nod to let her know it’s okay. “I’ll be in my room,” she murmurs as she passes Lara Jean. “Call the second you need me.”

 

“Thanks,” she murmurs back, grateful.

 

Lara Jean gestures to the couch. “Would you like something to drink?” she asks, polite, as he takes a seat.

 

“No, thank you. That smells delicious, by the way.”

 

“It’s just sugar cookies.”

 

“Well, I’m sure it’s fantastic, judging by the smell.” Mr. Kavinsky smiles at her. “Peter is a lucky guy. You bake, you go to a great school –“

 

“Oh, we’re not -“ Lara Jean starts to interrupt, but then stops. Something tells her not to say anything more.

 

“Look, Lara Jean,” Mr. Kavinsky says, not hearing her anyway. “I’m a little concerned about my son. You know, I’ve tried reaching out a bunch of times before. I mean, you saw me that one time, right?”

 

Lara Jean nods, slowly.

 

“Well, I was wondering. You seem like a nice girl. My son obviously thinks the world of you.” ( _How would you know?_ she wants to ask _. You guys don’t speak. You don’t know we’ve been broken up. For ages._ ) “Could you talk to him? Let him know – hey, his old man would like a word? With him and his baby brother? I’m not doing too good right now, without them.” His voice saddens, but then he laughs. “You should’ve seen them as kids, Lara Jean. Cutest, funniest little guys in the world.”

 

_I did see them as kids,_ she thinks. _I used to play with Peter. A bunch of us used to go over to your house. We used to hear you fight with his mom. He’d turn the tv up louder so we wouldn’t hear but we could. How come you don’t_ know _any of this?_

 

Mr. Kavinsky is looking at her, expectant, an easy-going smile. Like he expects her to say yes, of course, just because he asked so nicely, and told her a sweet story. She’s wondering about the time, in high school. At the lacrosse game. If he was expecting her to run to Peter and tell him to go talk to his dad, then, too. Which she did, like an idiot, because she didn’t know any better then.

 

So Lara Jean looks at him calmly, puts on her own sweet, little smile. “Of course. I’d be happy to, Mr. Kavinsky.”

 

He grins at her, and Lara Jean peers at him. There’s a glint in his eye that she doesn’t like. His smile may be just like Peter’s, but it’s also not – it only appears warm, and nice. There’s an eagerness in there that she’s never noticed before.

 

She doesn’t offer him another drink, and tells him she should be getting dinner ready, she and her roomies are having a girls night in. As soon as the apartment door closes, Aly is out of her room.

 

“What was that all about?” she demands.

 

“I dunno,” Lara Jean says, chewing on her thumb. She pulls out her phone, calls Peter. It goes straight to voicemail. She opens up her text messages and shoots off a quick, _Hey, you there?_ Then she goes to the oven, takes batch number five out. She doesn’t check to see if it’s even done, but she does check her phone again.

 

No answer from Peter.

 

She taps her foot, paces. Aly raises her eyebrows at her from the living room. Lara Jean pulls out her phone again – still no answer.

 

She calls again, this time leaves a voicemail. “Hey, Peter. It’s LJ. I . . .” She pauses. It sounds so awful, so _weird_ , to talk about this on a voicemail. While her friend is watching. “Something came up. Can you call me?”

 

When she hangs up, Aly says, “Is everything okay?”

 

“I really don’t know,” Lara Jean says, helpless. All she knows is that something felt very off – very _wrong_ – and she’s worried.

 

_How did he get my address?_ Why _did he –_

 

She looks at the time on her phone. It’s almost 4:30.

 

It’s the middle of winter. Peter might have a game.

 

Damn it.

 

She opens the weather app – clear skies, although cold. Then she Googles “UVA lacrosse schedule.”

 

No game today, but one tomorrow, on Saturday.

 

“Aly, can I borrow your car?” she asks, quickly.

 

Aly’s eyes go wide. “Uh, technically my mom’s car,” she reminds her.

 

“I know, but please? It’s an emergency. I swear to god, I’ll drive slow. I’ll be careful.”

 

“O-okay,” Aly says. “Where are you going?”

 

“UVA,” Lara Jean says, snatching Tupperware out of the cabinets and tossing batches one through four into them, helter-skelter. Batch number five is a lost cause – so is six. She grabs her bag from the coat rack, as Aly tosses her the keys to the Jetta.

 

“Are you nuts?! It’s four hours away!”

 

“Three hours and twenty-five minutes,” Lara Jean calls, over her shoulder, as she pulls on her puffer jacket, and she rushes down the steps.

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna try and power through as quick as possible, as work as erupted. Thanks for all the kind comments and kudos and patience. <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which our heroes learn the more things change the more they stay the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um i might have to change the chapter count idk yet ...

She tries calling, a million times – even stops on the side of the road a few times to text him.

 

_Hey. I need to talk to you. Are you around?_

_I’m headed up there. It’s kind of important._

_No one’s hurt or dead or anything but can you call me back?_

Nothing. It doesn’t help that she hits traffic and the drive ends up being closer to five hours. By the time she finally gets to Peter’s apartment she’s jumpy _,_ irrationally pissed that he hasn’t replied – even though logic tells her he’s probably been at practice, or his phone died, or he’s been busy with something.

 

Someone buzzes her into his apartment, though. She rushes up the stairs and knocks on the door, nervous, arms crossed in front of her chest.

 

A pretty girl opens the front door, clad only in a towel, her blonde hair wet and dripping around her shoulders.

 

Lara Jean gapes at her, heart slithering down to her stomach – then a terrible thought goes through her, brief but like lightning, _I’m too late._

 

The girl peers at her, suspicious – then something in her light eyes soften with recognition. “Laura Jean?” she asks, and the slight southern drawl is somehow familiar.

 

“Lara. Jean. Lara Jean,” she fumbles, in her relief. “Lily?”

 

The girl nods. “Yeah. Um, Peter’s not here. The guys are at a party. Is – is everything all right?”

 

“Um, I actually don’t know,” Lara Jean admits. “I just really need to talk to him. He’s not answering his phone. Do you know where . . .?”

 

“Yeah, I was gonna meet them there,” Lily says, ushering her inside. “Just let me get dressed.”

 

“Sure. Sorry about the whole barging in – ”

 

“It’s cool. Don’t worry about it, I take too long in the shower anyway,” Lily jokes, and heads to what must be her bedroom. She leaves the door open a crack and calls, “Just make yourself at home. I don’t know why he hasn’t been answering his phone. He’s normally glued to that thing.”

 

“Yeah, I kinda blew it up,” Lara Jean admits, sheepish. She looks around. She came over here, once, back when they were still dating – sophomore year, in the fall. Back then, it was just Peter and . . . DeMarcus? And Eric? It’s much the same, which is to say, a complete mess – typical evidence of three college guys living together strewn haphazardly all over the place, various pieces of clothing, crumbs, dirty plates, beer and soda cans. But there are some girly touches here and there, which must be Lily’s doing – a Yankee candle sitting on the coffee table, a vase of fresh flowers by the window, with a card attached. _Happy anniversary baby, Love D_ reads a boyish scrawl – but it’s been crossed out in someone else’s chicken-scratch, replaced with, _KISS KISS HUG HUG BABY BOO_ and cruder jokes.

 

There’s also the wall, covered in framed pictures. The majority are some nice black and whites of nature and objects – and Lara Jean vaguely recalls that Lily is a photographer – but some are of their friend group. Lara Jean smiles softly, searching for Peter in them. There’s a really good one of him playing lacrosse – she can tell it’s him, despite the helmet – and another of him and a guy she recognizes must be Eric, laughing as they both kiss a girl on her cheeks, her arms slung around both their necks. This time, her heart doesn’t stutter – she remembers this girl is Deanna, Eric’s girlfriend. Lily’s best friend.

 

But there’s another that draws her attention – a shot of DeMarcus, standing on a lawn, holding up a small Bluetooth speaker, under the light of an open window. Lara Jean can’t see who’s standing at the window, just a profile of a girl. Lily?

 

“You’re a _Say Anything_ fan?” Lara Jean says, impressed, as Lily opens the door and walks out.

 

“Huh?” Lily looks at her, clueless. “Oh, that. Don’t give D too much credit. He got the idea from Peter. Said he made him watch this old ‘80’s romcom. Gave him the idea. It was after – ” Lily pauses, laughing,“ – they both got so wasted DeMarcus threw up all over me, and I was pissed, because I thought he was gonna ask me out, but nope – puke. Just puke. I wouldn’t speak to either of them for a week. Turns out, D was so nervous he ended up getting drunk and . . .”

 

Lara Jean is barely listening, looking at the photo – she remembers the story from when Peter told her at the diner. He never got to this part, though. He must’ve been the one to take the picture, she realizes. Like how he helped when Dad proposed to Trina.

 

And then Lara Jean remembers now – she was the one who showed him _Say Anything._ One of their movie nights, back when they were fake dating and too stupid and scared and young.

 

_He really is a natural . . ._

 

Although she wonders why she’s so amazed. There were the notes, of course. And later, his promposal, her eighteenth birthday party. Maybe it’s the knowledge that even after all this time, after they said their goodbyes, it’s so reassuring to know that he’s still the same guy she knew when they were younger, each other’s whole world, and in love. That he took whatever piece she gave him, of her . . . took it, and nurtured it, grew with it, and . . . and passed it on to other loved ones, to take and hold dear, with them.

 

And she did the same, with him. Her confidence in freshman year, her ability to walk into a crowded room and find a new friend, something that never would’ve happened in high school. How she went for AASA secretary her junior year, and got it. How she’s going for medical school now . . .

 

Lily is hurriedly braiding her still damp hair. “Ready to go?” she asks.

 

Lara Jean turns to look at her. She looks really amazing, in a blousy green top and shiny leggings underneath a thick peacoat. But something’s missing. “Do you have some bobby pins?” Lara Jean asks.

 

Lily looks at her quizzically, but goes back to her room and comes out with several. Lara Jean points her finger at her to tell her to turn around, then takes Lily’s long braid and starts pinning it around her head in a crown. Lily giggles, then takes a compact out of her purse to admire the handiwork. “Peter said you taught him how to braid hair,” she says, impressed. “I thought he was drunk.”

 

“He must’ve been,” Lara Jean says, simply. “It was my little sister.”

 

Lily puts away the compact, and gazes at her, appraising. Lara Jean gazes back, steady. She’s not sure what this girl is going to say to her – what she knows, exactly, about her and Peter. She has a feeling it’s a lot. But Lily purses her lips and says, “Come on. It’s not too far from here,” and then hooks her arm through hers and leads her away.

 

*

 

“C’mon, Peter, she’s really nice,” Deanna wheedles. “And she’s smart. And cute! And – and –”

 

“Wow, you make her sound really not terrible,” Eric cracks, taking a swig of his beer.

 

Peter laughs too, but Deanna continues, “Look, all I’m saying – now is the perfect opportunity! You know, right before spring break . . .”

 

“I’m not bringing her to Portugal with us!” Peter exclaims.

 

“Yeah, no, not a good idea,” Eric chimes in quickly.

 

“We don’t even know each other that well.”

 

“Which is why you should get to know her _now_ ,” Deanna says.

 

“We’ve been on _two_ dates and they were just coff – you know what, nuh-uh, no,” he says, sinking deeper into the bean bag. Someone jostles him as they walk past, but he ignores it. “You barely know Ellie yourself. What if she’s some psycho? And we’re all stuck with her for an entire week in a foreign country.”

 

Eric raises his eyebrows over his glasses at her. “Yeah, hon. She could probably be working for some murderous hostel. Out to recruit as many American college students, dump them in a prison, and kill them at their leisure.”

 

Deanna rolls her eyes. “Can we stop giving me a hard time about those movies? Look, I just want everybody to have fun there. Not like, Mr. Broody Grumpy Face here.”

 

“I’m not –” Peter starts to say, but notices Eric stifling laughter behind his beer. “ _Dude_.”

 

“You kinda have been,” Eric admits, as Deanna sits on his lap.

 

“Just a teensy bit, Kavinsky . . . Lil! Where have you been, girl?”

 

“Hey,” Lily says, a little breathless. “Peter, can you come with me?”

 

Peter takes another sip from his Corona bottle. “Huh? What’s up?”

 

Lily’s eyes dart from him to their friends and back to him. “Kinda important,” she says, and holds out her hand.

 

Peter shrugs his shoulders at Eric and Deanna. As he accepts Lily’s hand and rises up, he sees her through the crowd of people – Lara Jean, across the room, talking with DeMarcus. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her face is grey.

 

_What the hell._

 

Peter follows Lily, sets down his bottle on the nearest table – ignores Eric’s confused, “Hey, isn’t that - ?” Lara Jean spots him as they approach, but she only looks slightly relieved.

 

 _Shit._ He reaches for her elbow. “Hey, everything okay?” he asks, lowly, by her ear – the party is too loud to talk otherwise. “You good?”

 

“No. Yes. I mean – can we go and talk somewhere?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Later,” he says, to Lily and DeMarcus.

 

“Yeah, man,” DeMarcus says, gives him a fist bump. He gives Peter a questioning look, and Peter shrugs. Lily smiles and then, to his surprise, says to Covey, “Thanks for the hair tips.” Lara Jean smiles back, genuine, but tired.

 

Lily tugs at Peter’s elbow before he turns to leave. “P.S., I covered for your ass, so you owe me,” she hisses into his ear.

 

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek – he guesses she means Ellie, but whatever. “Okay, cool, just chill,” he says, mostly to get her off his case, and guides Lara Jean out of the apartment as he shrugs on his jacket. The stairs are teeming with people, the noise just as deafening out in the hall than inside, so he leads her down and outside, onto the back patio. It’s a cold night, and the three people out here are just finishing up their cigarettes. Lara Jean zips up her puffer coat and Peter blows into his hands as they wait for the trio to head back inside. When they do, he takes a seat against the wall of the apartment building. Lara Jean follows suit and hugs her knees to her chest.

 

“Sorry, I tried calling,” she says. “But you didn’t answer.”

 

Peter shifts, uncomfortable. He’d seen her name pop up during the coffee date with Ellie and hadn’t wanted to deal with the completely irrational flash of guilt. He’d shut it off entirely after he got five texts in a row from his dad, making it a grand total of twenty-three for today. “Yeah, it was off.”

 

“For five hours?”

 

“Yeah.” Why the hell is she so pissed? “What are you, the phone police?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “No, I just – never mind.” And then, more kindly now, “I just really needed to talk.”

 

At her change in tone, he purses his lips, concentrates on the patio stones underneath his feet. “My dad’s been blowing it up lately, all of a sudden,” he admits.

 

“O-oh.” Lara Jean pauses. “Sorry.”

 

He shakes his head, shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about it. “Whatever, it’s nothing. So what’s up?”

 

She hesitates again, then says, “He came to see me. Today. Your dad. I thought you should know.”

 

 _. . . What_.

 

Covey licks her lips, stares at the top of his sneakers. “I’m not here to say you should talk to him, because that’s what he asked me to do. I’m here to say I’m sorry for ever trying to tell you that you should, when you didn’t want to. Now I know why.” Her forehead wrinkles in confusion, like she’s still puzzling everything out. “I thought you should know that he . . . he seemed . . . I dunno. Off.”

 

Peter gapes at her. Then he says the first thing that comes to mind.

 

“That mother _fucker_.”

 

“Peter,” Covey says, reproachful.

 

“Sorry.” He heaves a great sigh, thumps his head back against the wall. The sky is cloudy, the color of bruises. “He’s a piece of shit for going after you. I’m sorry.” That he went after his friends, back before Christmas break – that he went after her – to get to him . . . how did he even find out where she goes to school? He wants to rage, he wants to tell him to fuck off and get out of his life and Owen’s life, he wants to –

 

“I could kill him.” He reaches his hands out in a strangling motion, settles for punching his fist into his other palm. “I swear to fucking god, I could fucking kill that son of a bitch.”

 

She nudges his shoulder with her own. “Don’t. You’re better than that.”

 

He looks down at her – she looks up at him, her smile small and tentative from behind her knees. And just like that . . . he’s calmer now, steadier. She nudges him again and he attempts a smile in return before settling back against the wall.

 

Still, he’s curious. “What did he say?” he asks, eventually, after the silence has gone on too long and he feels like he can talk without yelling or hitting something.

 

She shrugs. “Just that he wanted me to get you to talk to him. I figured if he really cared – if he really knew stuff about you – he would know that we weren’t . . . anyway. He said something about not doing too good.”

 

Peter snorts. “He mixes lies with truth a lot. It’s part of his thing.”

 

“His thing?”

 

He waves it off. “Yeah. I – um, think he has a personality disorder. It’s what makes him do the things he does.”

 

“Can he get medication? Help?”

 

“Sure, if he’s willing. But narcissistic personality disorder – not so much. He’ll have to admit he has a problem first. And he won’t. Ever.” He shrugs, looks away. “Some of what he told you probably is true. He and Gayle are divorcing – she reached out to my mom a little while ago. Said she’s suing for custody of Ethan and Clayton and child support. Which means he’s pressed for money.” He furrows his brow, thinking. Dad must’ve gotten the paperwork from Mom’s attorney today, asking for him to help pay Owen’s tuition. It would explain why he went no-hands barred nuclear today, blowing up his phone and seeking Covey out. Peter sighs, gives her a side-long glance, suddenly very tired. “He’s gotta pay for _three_ little mouth-breathers now.”

 

Lara Jean quirks her brow, then her face slackens. “No. Wait . . .”

 

“Yeah,” Peter says, humorless. “His new girlfriend’s already knocked up. I’m gonna be a big brother again.”

 

Lara Jean lets out a slow breath. Peter rests his elbows on his knees, runs a hand through his hair.

 

“So, why’d you come down here, anyway?” he asks, quiet. “Not that I’m not – you know, ungrateful.”

 

She shrugs, looks at her feet. “I dunno. It felt weird to text you about it – or FaceTime. I just didn’t – you know . . . I felt you should know. In person.”

 

Peter peers side-long at her, scrubs the back of his head with his hand. For a moment, something like hope had sparked inside him. She’s red-faced, fiddling with her shoelaces, like she’s determined not to look at him. He grins, suddenly, unable to help himself. He’s always had that issue, with her. “Well, damn. I thought you were gonna say you still had the hots for me.” He laughs and says, sing-song, “You think I’m gorgeous, you want to kiss me, you want to hug me, you want to smooch me – ”

 

Lara Jean, surprised, bursts into laughter. “You finally saw _Miss Congeniality_!” she crows.

 

“How else was I gonna get you to watch _Stranger Things_?” he laughs. “Although, no, you gotta start with _Speed._ ”

 

She giggles. “I just can’t believe you watched it all by yourself. There’s hope for you yet, Peter Kavinsky.”

 

Her voice is too warm, too friendly. He shrugs, tries to pull back. This is venturing into territory he doesn’t want to get into, no matter how much he wishes. “Yeah, well, Lily had it on.” He stands up, grabs her hand to help her up too, as she scoffs at his deflection and gives him a knowing smile. “DeMarcus watched it too!”

 

Covey dissolves into giggles again.

 

And just because they’re both laughing now, he sings it again, “You think I’m gorgeous, you want to kiss me, you want to hug me, you want to smooch me –”

 

And just like in the movie, Lara Jean stops suddenly, gets way into his personal space. Peter stops singing instantly. She bites her lip, gazes up at him, eyes half-lidded. “Actually . . .”

 

He frowns, confused. “You serious right now?”

 

She nods once – puts a gentle hand on the back of his neck and pulls herself up towards him.

 

At the last second, he turns his head. “Um . . . Covey,” Peter mumbles. “Sorry, but – I mean, what about - you know, McClaren?”

 

She looks confused (which – why the hell would _she_ be the one confused), but then says, a little laughingly, “Oh. Um. Yeah.” She shakes her head. “We – uh, we broke up.”

 

He stares at her, uncomprehending. She might as well have told him aliens had landed and were taking over the entire world. Then, he can feel his face break into a slow, wide, pleased smile. “You kidding?”

 

She shakes her head, primly, then tilts up again – he hooks his finger into the belt loop of her jeans and pulls her flush against him and kisses her – gentle and soft, but close-mouthed. She smells like those sugar cookies she was always baking at home, and coconut, and all the good things he remembers about her. When she opens her mouth, he slides his tongue across her teeth – pulls her tighter to him when she inhales, a sharp, pleased sound that sends a shiver of heat straight through him.

 

 _Crazy. Nuts,_ he manages to think, when they shuffle backwards and his back hits the wall. But then he murmurs, against the line of her jaw, “How long ago?”

 

“Huh?” she murmurs back. “Oh, um . . . a few weeks ago.”

 

He stops, looks at her. There’s something in the tone of her voice that raises his hackles. She’s flushed, breathing hard. “Who did the breaking up?”

 

“What? Does it matter?”

 

He nods. “Uh, _yeah_.”

 

“ . . . I guess it was both of us.”

 

 _Well, fuck._ Peter scoffs laughter, lets her go. “Oh man, whatever,” he says, and she frowns. “That’s what the person who was dumped says.”

 

“I wasn’t dumped,” Lara Jean says, insulted. “W-we came to a mutual decision. It wasn’t working.”

 

“Right, right,” Peter says, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “And so, a few weeks after this ‘mutual’ decision you decided to go for second place, right?”

 

He’d chosen his words deliberately, but he doesn’t get the reaction he’d unconsciously wanted. Instead of anger, Covey seems to almost deflate. “No, you dumbass,” she says, on the verge of tears. “You know what? There are a crap load of reasons I didn’t call you right away, and this is one of them. I specifically stayed away from you after John and I broke up because I knew you’d react like this.” She wipes her face, crosses her arms across her chest. “I better go,” she mumbles, heading for the gate to get out of the yard. “I shouldn’t have come. I won’t again.”

 

“Covey, come here.” He puts an arm around her, and she stiffens, before she relaxes and inches closer. “Sorry,” he grumbles, and kisses her hair. She puts her arms around his waist and squeezes, tight. “This is all very weird, and confusing – and confusing.”

 

“I know,” she says, into his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

 

“Thanks.” He pauses, and says, “Sorry for being a dickhead.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

They stand there, hugging each other for a few minutes, his chin on the top of her head. After a while, he feels her take a deep breath and ask, in a shaky voice, “So what now?”

 

“I don’t know,” he admits, as he rubs her back. “It’s just . . . I mean . . .” Law school. Med school. He has a feeling where this conversation is going, and he’s dreading the answer. “Well, where did you even apply to? For med school?”

 

“All North Carolina schools,” she mumbles, almost angry, into his chest. “And NYU.”

 

He pulls back, stunned. “NYU?”

 

“Yeah.” She looks up at him. “Why?”

 

“I applied to all Virginia schools.” He licks his lips, stares right at her. “And Fordham. I mean, I haven’t heard _back_ yet, but . . .”

 

Lara Jean worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “NYU is my reach, though,” she says, quiet. “Everybody and their grandma applies there, because of the free tuition. You’re stupid not to apply. But you won’t get in.”

 

The brief flare of excitement dies, and he tries to cover his disappointment. He remembers what it was like, to think that they were both going to UVA, and only have that rug pulled out from under them. “Well, I wasn’t gonna get into Fordham, anyway,” he says, feigning dismissiveness.

 

He doesn’t even bother mentioning the alternative – her, transferring back home. She wouldn’t do it back then, and he can’t imagine her doing it again, now. Didn’t she say she had a bunch of reasons why she didn’t tell him about McClaren earlier? This was probably one of them. And he knows law school deadlines are coming up. If he’d apply now to anywhere down in North Carolina, he wouldn’t get in, anyway. Already he can tick off all the other arguments against it . . . doing long distance _again_ , even if only for a year – and probably the most difficult year for a brand new med student and a law student . . .

 

“So. Here we are,” she mutters. “Different day. Same story.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, sadly.

 

She hugs him once again, pulls away – wipes at the corner of her eyes. “I better go,” she says. “I got the AASA bake sale tomorrow and I’m not even half-way through.”

 

“Just buy something from the grocery store, Covey.”

 

She gives him the most insulted look that he has to laugh. “I’ll walk you back to your car.”

 

“It’s all the way back at your apartment.”

 

He shrugs, holds out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she takes it. “Was gonna crash early anyway,” he lies. “Game tomorrow.”

 

“Right,” she murmurs, like she sees right through the act, like she always does. She laces her fingers through his.

 

During the walk back, she notches herself against him. It’s almost like back when they were dating, and he can pretend that he’s just walking his girlfriend back to her car after a fun winter’s night out partying. But his mind jumps, left and right and all over. He’d went from hanging out with his friends, to being pissed off at his dad _again_ , to finding out that his old girlfriend broke up with her boyfriend, to thinking things might align – make itself _right_ , to realizing no, it wouldn’t. It’s been too quick, too crazy, and he’s not sure what to do right now.

 

All he knows is that he can’t let her slip through his hands again.

 

“We need to talk,” he says, when they reach the car. “I mean, later.”

 

She nods, not looking at him, non-committal. “Yeah, maybe we should.”

 

“I still wanna be friends, Covey,” he says, but even as he says it sounds wrong.

 

“I don’t know,” she says, measured, “if I could handle that.” Then she smirks at him, holds up their entwined hands. “Friends don’t exactly do this.”

 

“Sure, they do,” he scoffs, teasing. “We used to all the time.”

 

Her laugh is sharp, but genuine, rings all around them on the empty, cold street – keeps him warm. “You mean back when we were fake dating?”

 

“Yeah, but we were friends then, right?” he says. Then, as a joke, he leans forward – slides his free hand down her back jeans pocket. “Used to do this, too.”

 

She laughs again, but doesn’t do what he thinks she would’ve done – pull away, try to smack his shoulder. It’s strange, but nice, to see this kind of change in her.

 

Instead, she shakes her head at him, and mutters, with wry affection, “You’re impossible.” And then she kisses him, tongue just barely skating across his. _Definitely nice._ He tries to pull her in for a deeper kiss, but she takes a big step back. “As a friend,” she says, with that smirk again, and his shit-eating grin just widens. He pretends to stab his chest as if she wounded him, stumbles half a step backwards, and she just laughs.

 

He opens the car door for her – but knocks on the window after she starts the car. When she rolls the window down, he says, lowering his voice, “You know, a real friend would send some of her bake sale cookies to her friends on occasion. As a friend.”

 

She lifts her brows, leans out of the window to peer up at him. “And a real friend would come down to taste said friend’s . . . cookies. As a friend.”

 

Peter bites his lip to contain the grin – she does the same. He’s not entirely sure she knows what she’s suggesting – he’s not entirely sure if _he_ knows what she’s suggesting.

 

It’s a bad idea, with all this shit between them that’s been left unsaid.

 

It’s a very, very bad idea.

 

And yet, because he’s a glutton for punishment, especially when it comes to her, he _still_ smiles and says, “See you later, friend.”

 

“Bye, buddy.”

 

“Pal.”

 

“ . . . Chum.”

 

“ . . .”

 

“ . . .”

 

“Mate,” he laughs, triumphant.

 

Lara Jean tries to smack him through the window. He grabs her hand and kisses her open palm – her face softens and she murmurs, smiling softly, lovingly, like all the times she smiled when he dropped her off at her house at high school, and all just for him, “See you later, Peter Kavinsky.”

 

*

 

A few weeks later, over FaceTime, Lucas rubs his temple. “Hold up, lemme get this straight, LJ. So what you’re telling me is – somehow, someway, in essence, you are fake-dating Peter Kavinsky . . . _again_?”

 

Lara Jean winces, chews on her thumbnail. “I mean . . .” she hedges.

 

“Tell me you guys aren’t boinking,” Lucas groans.

 

“ . . . . No. I mean, n-not – you know, actual, you know . . . ”

 

Lucas groans louder. “So. You’re telling me you are friends with benefits, but with, only like what? Half of the benefits?”

 

“That’s such an awful term,” Lara Jean says, offended.

 

“Three quarters?”

 

She hangs her head.

 

“Lara _Jean_!”

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a filler chapter sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i give up trying to estimate chapter counts, back to the question mark of doom, sorry D-:

“Where’re you going?” Lily asks, from the couch.

 

Peter finishes up pouring the rest of his coffee into the travel mug. “Home for the weekend,” he says as he slings his backpack over his shoulder.

 

“You never bring stuff home,” Lily says. She nudges DeMarcus’s shoulder. “Right, D?”

 

“How would I know? I’m not the dude’s mom,” he replies, engrossed with the ESPN scores.

 

She rolls her eyes. Peter hides his by taking a deep drink of the scalding coffee. He applauds himself for not reacting. “And neither are you,” he says, pointing at Lily. “See you on Monday, guys.”

 

“This is what? The third time you’ve gone down there? Fourth? Is she coming back up here next weekend again?”

 

“Babe, come on, chill,” DeMarcus says, placating.

 

“Thought you liked her,” Peter says, casually, neither confirming nor denying, as he heads towards the door.

 

“I adore her, but this isn’t healthy!” Peter hears Lily call as he shuts the door.

 

When he climbs into his Jeep, he turns the heat up only mid-way – it’s finally no longer frigid, but his car is getting old, and needs a warm-up before driving. As he waits for the car to heat up, he pulls out his phone and sets up Waze for the directions and then checks his texts. One from Mom, letting him know that nothing’s really happened with her case against Dad yet. As he reads it, DeMarcus shoots him a text – _Sorry man I’ll get her to chill out. But yeah, kinda unhealthy._ Peter rolls his eyes, and then pulls up Covey’s messages.

 

 _You doing anything today?_ he texts, then takes a sip of coffee again.

 

As he waits for her reply and the car to warm up, DeMarcus FaceTimes. Peter sighs, thumps the back of his head against the headrest, and accepts the call. He can only see the side of Lily’s shoulder, but he can hear he talking softly in the background. “Okay,” DeMarcus says, all seriousness. “I’ve been told – ”

 

“Don’t _say_ that!” Lily hisses.

 

“This isn’t healthy, and we love you – well, Lil loves you, I’m ambivalent – ”

 

“D!” Lily again.

 

“Just, think it through, man?” DeMarcus finishes, shoving Lily’s shoulder with his own.

 

Peter calmly takes another sip of coffee. “Anyone ever tell you you’re whipped?”

 

DeMarcus scowls at him. “Says the man about to take a four hour drive for a goddamned booty call. What does she have, a magical pu – ”

 

“ _DEMARCUS!!!!_ ” Lily shrieks in the background.

 

“Aaaaaand see you later,” Peter says, making an exaggerated motion with his finger towards the red button. “By the way, it’s three hours and twenty-five minutes.” Then he hangs up.

 

Covey’s finally answered. _Just chilling._ She follows it up with a blushing smiley face.

 

He grins, then slides the Jeep into drive.

 

*

 

See – Peter had honestly, truly, from the bottom of his heart, gone down to North Carolina to talk to Lara Jean. Just talk. The week after she’d come by to tell him about Dad, he’d texted her, said he wanted to see her and talk, in person. Plain, simple, direct. No innuendo, no immaturity. He’d been rather proud of himself. In turn, she’d said sure, pick her up at her place, and they’d go for coffee or something. Also, plain, simple, and direct. No hint of funny business. Nothing.

 

So, after his Saturday practice, he’d showered, put on some nice – well, nic _er_ – clothes, and drove down to UNC. He’d went over everything in his head about what he’d say, even though while he was relatively sure what he wanted in the end, he wasn’t sure how they’d get to it. But. That was the purpose of talking, right? To figure things out.

 

And yet . . .

 

And yet the second she opened the apartment door, her smile small but soft and warmly pleased, just at seeing him, he’d kind of – well, definitely – lost his damn mind and kissed her right away in greeting. He’d meant for it to be short and quick, but she hadn’t seemed all that surprised at all, and then one thing led to another and they’d ended up in her bedroom, taking turns going down on each other, because like an _idiot_ he hadn’t brought condoms – because, he’d honestly had come down just to talk. Honestly.

 

It spiraled after that. The next weekend, she had surprised him at a home game. He hadn’t even known she was in the stands until he’d come out of the showers and she was waiting with a hot chocolate, a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies, and a big smile on her face. He’d been so wiped – they’d _barely_ won (and all thanks to him, thankyouverymuchshittydefense) – that as much as he was willing, realistically he wasn’t able, and they’d just hooked up and fell asleep spooning. He didn’t even get a chance to eat the cookies she’d brought – DeMarcus and Eric finished them the next morning, and she had to go back home to have breakfast with her family.

 

He’d driven down next weekend, went down early enough so there wasn’t any excuse _not_ to talk – and, nope. Didn’t talk. Same thing happened when she came up afterwards, too. And it didn’t feel right having sex without talking about stuff first, so they just silently agreed not to cross that line, even though, hell, he supposes they crossed several already.

 

Technically, he guesses, this was supposed to be her turn to visit, but they don’t really have a formal arrangement . . . or contract, if you will. Mainly, of course, because of the not talking part.

 

But whatever. Today. Today they’ll talk. Really.

 

*

 

Lara Jean’s left the door to the apartment unlocked. Peter pushes it open and calls, “Yo,” then peers around, looking for her roommates. He can hear clanking around in the kitchen, and the aroma of something familiar and comforting wafting throughout the apartment.

 

“In here,” Covey calls.

 

He toes off his sneakers, shrugs off his jacket. He brings the backpack with him. Covey’s working at the stove. “Thought you’d need lunch,” she says, not looking at him as he saunters in.

 

“Great, I’m starving . . . rice balls!” he exclaims, excited. She has an entire batch already rolled up into tofu skins, laid out on a plate on the counter. He puts her a hand on the small of her back, reaches to grab one of them. He can’t remember the last time he had one of these. Eric’s mom paid them a visit once and she’s half-Korean, half-Chinese, and although she knew what Peter had been talking about – he couldn’t give her the word for it in Korean – she’d been nice enough to make them a batch. It didn’t taste the same, though.

 

“Careful, they’re hot,” she says, idly, as he pops one in.

 

“They’re – mmhm – great,” he mumbles around a mouthful. She giggles at his expression and finishes up the remaining few. As he chews, he looks at her, concentrating on wrapping the tofu skins just so with her deft, spindly fingers. _She’ll make a great surgeon,_ he realizes, and strokes the soft spot on the small of her back, where her shirt has ridden up.

 

Lara Jean stops – it’s just a slight pause, nothing anybody else would notice, but Peter’s standing close enough. He leans in slowly, kisses her temple – closes his eyes, breathes in. Coconuts, of course. He feels her sigh, and she shifts towards him, and in another half-beat they’re kissing gently.

 

“Thought you were hungry,” she murmurs, arms around his neck. Her body is flush against his, warm and soft and nestled firmly in, like a puzzle piece.

 

“Yeah, not for food.”

 

She snickers, keeps her hands away from him. “I gotta wash my hands,” she says, pulling back.

 

He grins at her. “You don’t necessarily need your hands – ”

 

“Peter,” she admonishes, and he lets her go with a groan. He goes to put his bag in her room, then comes back and helps her tidy up the mess in the kitchen before they sit down on the couch to dig in.

 

“Where’s Savannah and Aly?” he asks.

 

“Aly’s at the library. Sav’s with Jae.” She shrugs. “She and him have been talking again.”

 

Peter shifts on his eat, considering. He knows a bit of the story, but not all of it. He’s wondering if he should ask. “Are you cool with that?”

 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? Jae’s great.”

 

“Well, I mean, wasn’t he friends with . . . thought you said you all stopped talking? ”

 

Lara Jean waves her fork around, dismissive. “Yeah, yeah. I mean . . .” She shrugs. “Water. Bridge. Et cetera. Besides, he’s graduated, so . . .”

 

She doesn’t have to say who “he” is. Peter thinks about starting the talk now – about sophomore year and that Theo punk, about McClaren . . . about what’s going to happen, very soon . . . about what’s _not_ happening, with them . . . It’s just that simple. They need to talk.

 

But he knows that they have a problem – that every time he comes here – and every time she drives up in Aly’s borrowed car – they kind of . . . don’t. Sure, they talk about everything else – how’re their families are doing, what’s going on with lacrosse and AASA, if she’ll finally bite the bullet and watch _Stranger Things_ or _Bird Box_ , because how else will she understand the memes? But they don’t talk about the elephants in the room.

 

They do other stuff.

 

Like now. Lara Jean puts down her plate on the coffee table, and stretches out on the couch, long, like a cat. The front of her t-shirt rolls up and he can see a trim of pink lace peeking out underneath her leggings. As he chews his lunch, he wonders how much she’d like it if he’d pull that shirt all the way up, see if her bra matches her panties – push the lace aside and start licking . . . see if the mark he’d left last week with his teeth and tongue is still there, maybe give it a matching twin . . .

 

She puts her feet on his lap and catches him watching, bites down on her lip.

 

“You almost done with that?” she asks, nodding at his plate.

 

“Nope,” he says, and deliberately slows down his chewing. She scrunches her nose up at him but he takes his dear, sweet time, all the while trying to hide his grin. “I _am_ very hungry, you know.”

 

“Hmm, too bad,” Covey muses, as she sits up. “Well, guess I’ll shower while I wait for you to finish.” She stands up and peers down at him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide in feigned innocence.

 

Peter puts his half-eaten plate on the coffee table and takes her hand. “Well, damn, if you insist,” he says, and she laughs as she helps him up. As they rush to the bathroom, he hugs her from behind, and they both laugh, hobbling over. He buries his face into the back of he neck, blows raspberries there as she giggles, gasping and trying to twist out of his grip.

 

All of a sudden, something occurs to him, and he says, seriously now, by her ear, “You drive me so fucking crazy,” and curses internally at the way his voice just hitched.

 

Lara Jean pauses – he loosens his hold and she turns around, brushes his hair back from his forehead. Her eyes have gone soft, watery, and dammit, he hadn’t meant to make her cry. He pulls her close and kisses her temple. “Covey, we really need to talk – ” But then she reaches for him again and kisses him, hard, and he loses his train of thought, again.

 

He presses her up against the wall, pushes his hand up underneath her shirt, her bra – she moans and starts unbuttoning his jeans, dives her hand down his boxers . . . and then keys start clattering and clanging outside the front door and they separate.

 

“Don’t mind me,” Aly says, gaze down, as she walks in and they straighten their clothing. She slings her backpack off and as she brushes by, it grazes Peter enough so that he has to take a step back. Wow. He thought Covey had bad judgey eyes. “LJ, I really need the gas money from last time.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll Venmo it,” Lara Jean murmurs. “Sorry, just forgot, Al.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“What’s with her?” he asks, as Aly closes her bedroom door.

 

Covey heads to her own bedroom, and he follows. She picks up her phone and he can see her pull up Venmo immediately. “She, um, she’s just looking out for me,” she says, after she puts the phone back on her desk. Peter plops down on her bed, using his elbows to prop him up, as she sits down on her fluffy shag bean bag. “She thinks all this” – she waves her hand around – “is unhealthy.”

 

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, um, D and Lily think so too. And, uh, Eric and Deanna . . .”

 

“And Savannah and Lucas and Margot and . . .”

 

“How many people have you told?” Peter asks, aghast. He doesn’t like the idea of Margot judging him. He’s always been kind of scared of her, in a way. Then another thought occurs to him. “You haven’t told Kitty, have you?”

 

“ _God_ no!” Lara Jean exclaims, giving him a, _Are you a dumbass?!_ look. “Can you imagine what she’d do?!” They both shudder. “Besides, she’s so pissed lately at the world, I’m afraid she’s gonna, like, actually murder me. With dull objects.”

 

“What’s wrong with her?”

 

Lara Jean shrugs, gloomy. “She won’t tell me, or Margot. Or even Trina. We’ve tried. She just won’t say. I think it’s because she’s sad about leaving all her friends. But every time I say anything about it, she just snaps at me, or doesn’t say anything.”

 

Peter makes a mental note to ask Owen. He knows they’re not exactly friends, but they’re friendly, and have some classes together.

 

Meanwhile, Lara Jean settles into the bean bag and closes her eyes, almost as if dozing, and he frowns. They can’t avoid this forever.

 

“We should talk,” he says.

 

Lara Jean opens one eye to look at him. She sits up. “Yeah, I guess.” She crosses her legs at her ankles, folds her hands into her lap. “So ... talk.”

 

Peter hedges, suddenly apprehensive. He gestures to her. “Lady’s first.”

 

She puckers her lips, hesitates. “No, by all means,” she says, with a wave of her hand.

 

He raises his eyebrow at her.

 

She raises both of hers back.

 

Outside, they can hear Aly puttering about in the kitchen, before she shuffles back into her bedroom and closes the door with a firm click.

 

But still, neither of them say anything.

 

And outside, through her window – the faint rush of a car driving by, and then the silence grows, until Lara Jean finally bursts out, “Do we really have to talk? Let’s just go watch some _Stranger Things_ and –”

 

Peter almost laughs at her. “Okay, now I know you’re avoiding it because there’s no way you’d volunteer to watch a scary show.”

 

“You said it wasn’t scary at all.”

 

“Covey.” He sits up on the bed, looks at Lara Jean directly. “Just. Come on. We - we told each other we’d tell each other the truth, right? No matter how hard.”

 

“Don’t talk about the contract,” she says, quietly.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because - “ She looks away. “Because every time I think about it, it was like a roadmap. Except it wasn’t to a beginning.”

 

He sighs, presses the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Lara Jean ...” He looks up at the ceiling. “Okay. Let’s start there. At the contract.”

 

She eyes him cautiously. “Okay. Let’s.” Lara Jean takes a deep breath. “Why’d you stop writing me letters?”

 

-tbc-


	11. Chapter 11

Damn, right into things, then.

 

Peter blows a long breath out, scrabbles at his hair. “Uh, lacrosse was crazy,” he says, finally. “Coach was on all of our cases. Felt like he was at me all the time. If I wasn’t at a game, I was at practice. Or the gym. Or, you know, studying, because if I didn’t keep my grades up I couldn’t play. And then if I couldn’t play, there goes my scholarship.”

 

“Okay,” Lara Jean says, quietly. “But that’s not all, is it?”

 

He chews on his lip before carefully saying, “You were really stressed out. Didn’t seem like you wanted to talk much. And then - you know - you’d said you failed that midterm.” She nods once, arms crossed against her chest now. “I dunno. I felt like I was distracting you.”

 

She looks up, startled. “You weren’t a distraction.”

 

“Yeah?” he gives her a sad quirk of his mouth. “Then how come you stopped calling at night?”

 

“I was freaking out,” she says. “That midterm was forty percent of my grade and I bombed it. And you can’t get into any good med school without a good orgo grade. It almost killed my entire GPA. I never studied as hard as I did in my life to pull it back up. It was horrible. But I did it.” He smiles wryly at her proud tone. “But also ... it just seemed like when I did call, you weren’t talking much, either.” His smile fades and he looks away. She gets up and sits next to him on the bed. “It was your dad again, wasn’t it?”

 

“How’d you – ?”

 

“Figured it out.” She shrugs. “Corner Cafe? You said you didn’t want your mom to go to court again. I thought you meant, you know, back when they divorced. But, after what happened with your Dad recently . . .”

 

He nods slowly.  _Here we go._  “So, sophomore year? He tried to sue for custody of Owen. It was so random. And now I know, stupid, because Owen would’ve been old enough to say no anyway and the judge would’ve listened. We’re still not sure exactly why he did it. But I think that basically, Dad was doing it to fuck with us, make us twist. He didn’t even show up to the final hearing.” Lara Jean makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Everything was nuts that time. Mom was really worried and Owen was really worried and I was at school, dealing with lacrosse, and then this bullshit comes out ...” He falls back on the bed and Lara Jean lies down next to him, their arms and legs touching, both of them looking up at the ceiling. “It’s how I got interested in law though.”

 

“So some good came of it,” she murmurs.

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

“Why do you think he reached out the first time? I mean, that time in high school.”

 

He shrugs. “I dunno. Narcissists need attention. Probably wasn’t getting the kind of attention he needed at the time, so he tried to sweet talk his through us. Maybe he and Gayle were fighting. Who knows. But whatever.”

 

“How come you didn’t tell me all of this when it was going on?”

 

Peter hesitates, because this is the part he doesn’t want to tell her. But he eventually says, quietly, “You wouldn’t have understood.”

 

“I would’ve,” she says, insulted. Hurt. And he knows why. That’s what he used to tell her – that she always understood him, better than anyone.

 

“No,” he says, tired. “No, you wouldn’t have. Because you like to see everything with - I don’t know - like you see everything is shiny and happy and good. You pushed me to invite him to graduation -“ Her mouth drops open, stunned “- and he didn’t come. Just like I knew he would.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, sadly.

 

He looks at her, exasperated. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. But that’s the thing - I knew he would flake, because I know him. I know the world is ugly and mean and dark. You - you don’t know. You always see the light.”

 

She shakes her head. “No. Not anymore.”

 

“Theo?” he guesses, and even as she shakes her head again, he starts to rise, like he’s going to find him and kick his skull in – which, frankly, has occurred to him on more than one occasion.

 

“He didn’t do anything bad,” she says, gently. “I mean, not  _bad_ bad.”

 

“Oh, really?”

 

“I mean, not any worse than the typical upperclassman meets freshman girl, dates her for a little bit when she eventually breaks up with her long-distance boyfriend, then quickly loses interest when a pretty transfer student walks by,” Lara Jean says, mildly.

 

Peter frowns. Tale as old as time, basically. Still. “Douchebag.”

 

Lara Jean furrows her brow at him. “Be nice.”

 

“Why should I? I knew he was a dick, and I told you.”

 

The crease in her brow deepens. “Was the thing with your dad the real reason you were so pissed about me not coming home for spring break? Or was it just Theo?”

 

“Part of it, yeah,” he admits. The fight they had – well,  _he_  had, with her, because he’d been the one shouting and Lara Jean had just looked at him like he was crazy, before quietly signing off on FaceTime without a further word – is not something he’s proud of. “You know, we weren’t really talking as much – and all that shit was going down – so when you said you wanted to stay with Theo . . .”

 

“I never said that. I said I had to study.”

 

“But with him?”

 

“At the time,” she says, measured, “I thought he genuinely wanted to help me. And I wasn’t interested in anything more.”

 

“Sure, but guy just doesn’t volunteer to stay back for spring break to help.”

 

“ _You_  would’ve,” she says, pointed.

 

“Yeah, for  _you._  Get it?” He taps his temple.

 

She rolls her eyes. “Well,  _now_  I get it,” she admits, grumbling. She looks him in the eye. “Sorry I was so dense.”

 

He can feel the corner of his mouth go up slightly. “You need to work on that.”

 

She holds up her pinky, and he tugs it with his own. Then, she gets a wicked look on her face. “Well, if it wasn’t for that douchebag, I wouldn’t have pulled my orgo grade up!”

 

Despite himself, Peter laughs with her. When they’ve calmed down, she looks at him, admonishing, but tender. “Maybe I wouldn’t have understood what was going on with your dad,” she admits. “But you still should’ve told me.”

 

He nods once, holds up his pinky now. She obliges, and he leans forehead and places a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. “I know.”

 

She pulls back, traces his lips with her finger. “Your turn.”

 

“We’re taking turns?” he mumbles, closing his eyes at her touch.

 

She shrugs. “We’re on a roll.”

 

“Think its yours, actually.”

 

“I think its yours.”

 

He opens his eyes, raises his brows. “I lost track.” She glares playfully at him. “Okay. Whatever. We’re on a roll, like you said. What else do you wanna know?”

 

She chews on the inside of her cheek. “Melissa. Were you and she – I mean, before we – ”

 

“No,” he says, firmly, so that she’ll believe him, because it’s the truth.

 

She nods once. “Why’d you guys break up?”

 

He shrugs, ambivalent. “It wasn’t working.”

 

They’re quiet again, and then she says, abruptly, “How far did you go with her?”

 

Peter winces. “Pass,” he says.

 

“Pass? We can pass?” she exclaims.

 

“Yeah, pass.” He can’t believe she’s on this track again, given what happened in high school with Genevieve. Especially since – well, he can tell . . . she’s gotten more experienced, for lack of better word. The handful of times they had had sex, between their first time and when they left for college, she’d always been tentative – never initiating, letting him lead the way. And sometimes, if he wasn’t careful, it still hurt her. When they did long-distance, she was more adventurous, more open, which he guesses was natural, since whenever they did manage to see each other, there were plenty of opportunities to practice. But it’s nothing like now – where hell, she’d just suggested fooling around in the shower half an hour ago, or whenever he goes down on her, she’ll tell him exactly what to do and when to do it. It’s hot, he actually  _loves_  it, but what he doesn’t love is the fact that he wasn’t around for that progression from shy teenage girl to this. That someone else – or someone elses – got to experience that with her is unsettling, makes the undersides of his fingernails itch.

 

“So . . . you don’t want to know whether me and – ?”

 

“Nope. Nope nope nope aaaaand nope,” he says, resolute. “And why do you? I mean, I thought you were over this whole – you know, lack of experience thing – ”

 

“I am,” she says, insistent. Then she says, a little embarrassed, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but, um, you’re a bit better than you were back when we – ” Peter chokes out a laugh, not knowing whether to be insulted or pleased, and she hastily adds, “Look, I was just curious. I’m trying to pay you a compliment!”

 

“You have a funny of showing it, Covey!” he almost snaps, and she stifles a giggle. “Let’s just say I wasn’t a priest and I can tell you weren’t a nun. That’s all I need to know and all you need to know.”

 

Lara Jean puckers her mouth, shifts on the bed. “Okay. Pass then. Your turn.”

 

Peter shifts too, still grumpy about her questioning, and not liking where the conversation has turned to. But, he figures, he has to know about this one. “Are you still talking to McClaren?”

 

She meets his gaze, steady. “We text sometimes. I ran into him the other day, on campus.”

 

He can feel his jaw tick, but he says, calmly, “Okay.” Because what else can he say? They’re not really dating. They’re just - well - they’re ... anyway, he doesn’t really get a right to be mad, he guesses. Even though he is. “Why’d you two break up?”

 

Here her gaze falters a bit. “I told you. It wasn’t working out. It was a mutual decision.”

 

“And I told you, that’s what someone who was dumped says.”

 

“So I guess Melissa dumped you, then,” she quips.

 

Peter turns on his side to face her, crosses his arms – shrugs his shoulders in challenge. “Yeah, I guess she did. She said I was obsessed with lacrosse.”  _And you_ , he almost adds, but doesn’t.

 

Lara Jean turns and faces him on the bed, too. “And that Kelsey? Chelsea?”

 

_Huh_? “Casey?” She nods. “Nah, I did dump her. We were too busy. You never answered my question.”

 

“Did you for ‘far’ with her?”

 

He recognizes when she’s trying to distract him, so he says, quickly, “Yup. You still haven’t answered it.”

 

“Answered what?”

 

“My question.”

 

“What question?”

 

“Why’d McClaren dump you?”

 

Lara Jean’s mouth pinches. Finally, she says, slowly, “When we ran into each other he had good news.” Peter makes a “whatever” face because he doesn’t understand why she’s deflecting. “He’d said Dipti started talking to him again, after a lot of begging on his end. So ... I guess you could say he dumped me because he wasn’t over her.”

 

Oh. That wasn’t what he was thinking happened. Peter had kind of been hoping ... well, if he’s being honest, he’d kind of been thinking maybe McClaren broke things off because of him – that Sundance knew he couldn’t compete. Kind of ego-bruising to know that wasn’t the case.

 

“Ha, are you insulted?” Lara Jean says, in disbelief.

 

“Nah,” Peter says, quickly, but she laughs.

 

“You kinda are!”

 

“.... No way,” he says, too casually, which of course she picks up on. She keeps giggling. He eyes her warily, though. The way she’d been carrying on, there’s something more to it than that. “So what’s the big deal then, that he wasn’t over his ex?” Covey stops her giggling abruptly, which now gets him really thinking. “There is something more. What was it?”

 

All her good humor gone, Lara Jean rubs the back of her neck uncomfortably. “Peter, please -“

 

“No, I really want to know now. What’s the big deal? You two are over, right?”

 

“Yes, of course,” she sighs, tired.

 

“So ...?”

 

“So ...” she sighs again, rolls her eyes. “I pass. Can I pass? I pass.”

 

“You can’t pass,” he says, immediately.

 

“ _You_ passed,” she says, accusatory.

 

“Fine, I re-take the question,” he says, calling her bluff. “I had sex with Melissa, on a regular basis. Casey, not so much, we didn’t really last that long, I’d say, maybe, five, seven times? In between them there were a few random hook-ups, but nothing too crazy, except for that one time where – ”

 

“Stop,” Lara Jean grimaces, holding up her hand, and he does, because he hadn’t meant to be a jerk about it, and he doesn’t like the look on her face. Her face red, she says, “Well, for me, it was just Theo and John, and they both were – ”

 

“That wasn’t my question,” Peter interrupts, because he really really  _really_  doesn’t want to hear about this from her. Especially about her sex life with McClaren. Theo, he could get through it. Theo was never the problem. He was never the real issue.

 

(He was never the threat.)

 

Lara Jean seems to wilt under his gaze. He presses, “My question was, why did you and McClaren break up for real?”

 

“You’re really not gonna give up are you?”

 

“Nope.” He pokes her in the side. “Tell. I want the whole story.”

 

She gets up, sits back down on the very edge of her desk chair. It’s like the temperature in the room has dropped a few degrees. “Please don’t be mad?”

 

That’s never a good sign. But Peter finds himself nodding.

 

“He got a job in Chicago. He asked me to come. I thought about it. Eventually, I said I would. He - he realized though that he didn’t actually want me to come, because he knew I didn’t want to - not really - and you know, he was still in love with Dipti.”

 

Peter stares at her, in shock. It’s like being sucker-punched, straight in the gut.

 

_She’d do that for McClaren. But not for ..._

 

Lara Jean is staring at the floor now, talking so quietly he has to strain to hear. “I agreed, even though I knew I’d be miserable. Even though I knew it was the wrong decision. But, I guess it worked out, because he knew it was wrong, too.”

 

Peter swallows, licks his lips. His throat feels sore, and he can feel himself struggle to speak calmly. “I don’t get it. Why would you agree to go with him when you wouldn’t for me? Why would you do it if you knew you’d be miserable?”

 

She shrugs her shoulders, still staring at the floor, and suddenly, all the old anger from back when they were in high school - when he thought she was dicking around with him with McClaren – even when he saw Sanderson skulk out of the shadows at her house - comes roaring back terribly.

 

“What the  _fuck_ , Covey.”

 

“Peter,” she pleads, but he stands up, well and truly pissed. She flinches.

 

“I asked you so many times - and you never - what the hell - I thought –”  _I thought we were in love. That you loved me._  “You wouldn’t make that sacrifice for  _me_  but you’d do that for  _Sundance_?! What the hell.”

 

“It wasn’t like that at all,” she exclaims, panicked, as she rises from the chair.

 

“Okay, then what was it?!”

 

“It was – I dunno – ” she struggles, and he scoffs, angrily, and she finally bursts out, “It was guilt.”

 

“Guilt?!” What the fuck is she even  _on_.

 

“Yes, guilt,” she almost spits, wiping at her eyes. “Because deep down, the entire time I was with him, I knew it wasn’t ... that - that John and I only happened because you and me - we ...” she flounders, stops, then looks at him directly, eyes red. “Because I felt like I had to make it up to him. Because I felt guilty for still being in love with you, the entire time, and I never realized it until you called and came down to see me.”

 

She’s crying in earnest now, and somehow he feels like he can’t breathe anymore either. He doesn’t know who reaches for the other first, but he kisses her, as deeply as he can, though that really doesn’t help with the breathing problem. But he also doesn’t care, not when she starts raking her nails down his back, fists his shirt up over his head - rolls her hips up to meet his.

 

He pulls her shirt up roughly. “Did you bring – ” she murmurs, gasping as he unhooks her bra, cups her breasts

 

“Yeah,” he manages to mutter, kicking off his jeans – she helps him out of his boxers and grabs hold of him, stroking briefly, before he turns abruptly and fumbles for his backpack.

 

And then they both stop talking entirely, because he finally pushes into her, feels her all around him,  _finally_ , again, his entire world – pushes in, again and again . . . And he swallows her gasps with his, circles his hips into hers, feels her shudder and tick and shudder and  _arch_  . . . He spirals soon after her, tries not to go totally to pieces, because he has to tell her, she has to know . . . that he meant what he said in the contract, that he never broke the most important part, and never will.

 

( _with all his heart, always_ )

 

*

 

_“What’s the difference between a comet and a meteor?”_

_Lara Jean pushes up on her elbows to look at the streaks flying through the night sky. “Hmm, I dunno. I think comets orbit the sun. Meteors just fall onto Earth. Or something.” She pauses, unsure. It’s been a while since eighth grade science class. “Google it?”_

_Peter takes out his phone and starts typing. “Um . . . well, it says meteors can originate from comets. Like, it’s comet trash.”_

_Lara Jean laughs. “Comet trash?”_

_“Debris, whatever,” Peter laughs back. He pulls the blanket more securely over them. “Cold?”_

_“No,” she replies, but presses the blanket against her naked chest. “So, do comets orbit the sun?”_

_“Yeah,” Peter says, locking his phone. She settles against his shoulder, her eyelids fluttering. “So do comet trash.” She giggles, eyes closed. She feels him kiss the side of her mouth. “But some comets pass by Earth, and go around again. It takes a while, but they always come back. ”_

Lara Jean blinks awake from her dream, the remnants of it already seeping away from her consciousness. She’d been dreaming of the night they saw the meteor shower, she thinks. Or maybe she was just remembering.

 

She’s lying on her chest – she lifts her head from the pillow, shifts, and hugs it to her. Peter’s already awake. They stare at each other for a moment, just blinking, silent. It’s peaceful, and calm, and warm in this little cocoon of blankets. She could stay here forever, pretending that everything has frozen forever in a perfect dream, the afternoon sun glinting in through her Hello Kitty curtains and casting gold and bronze on his face, his eyelashes.

 

He reaches over and pushes a strand her hair behind her ear. “Did you hear back from any med schools?” he mumbles, finally.

 

“Yeah,” she says. Her voice sounds hoarse - she clears her throat. “UNC accepted me. A full ride.” She touches his eyebrow with a single finger, follows the curve with feather-lightness. “Law school?”

 

“Washington and Lee,” he says. “They threw a good chunk of money at me. Almost fully paid. It’ll definitely help, you know, with Mom and Owen.”

 

She smiles, so very proud of him, “That’s great.”

 

“Thanks. Congratulations to you too.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

She snickers. He kisses her forehead. His lips linger there, and he says, hesitantly, “I haven’t heard back from Fordham yet. Did NYU – ?”

 

“No. No, I haven’t heard.” She sighs. “Peter, I’m guessing you didn’t bother applying to NYU’s law school because it was too hard, right?”

 

“Yeah ...” He says it like he knows what she’s about to say.

 

“Well, the med school is just as hard to get into, too. So ...”

 

He groans. “I know, I know. But what are we gonna do about - you know - this - ?”

 

She bites her lip. “Can’t we just - I don’t know - ignore it for now?”

 

“ _Covey_.”

 

“Kavinsky.” She sits up, pulls the covers with her. “Look. Okay. I stay here. What are you gonna do, transfer here? Are you really going to give up all that money, with what’s going on with your brother and dad?”

 

Peter’s jaw works. “Well, you could come back home.”

 

She sighs. “UNC gave me a free ride. I gotta think about Kitty too.”

 

“Okay. So we’ll do -“

 

“Don’t say long distance,” she grumbles. “You know we’ve only managed to keep doing this – this – whatever  _this_ is – ”

 

“Friends with benefits?”

 

“That’s  _such_  a horrible phrase!” she exclaims.

 

“There’s an even worse one,  _buddy_ ,” Peter points out, dryly.

 

Lara Jean huffs, exasperated. “Fake dating two-point-oh sounds much better,” she decides.

 

He barks out an astonished laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

 

“Just – whatever you want to call it – it’s only working so far because we’re seniors and we don’t actually have to concentrate on school anymore. You really think we can get through the first year of law school and med school apart?”

 

Peter waves a hand, frustrated, but Lara Jean glares at him, insistent. “You’re a spoilsport,” he mutters, finally. But she can tell he knows that she makes sense - perhaps even thought about everything she’s just said, already, a hundred times over.

 

“I’m a realist.”

 

“I think I liked the dreamy girl better.”

 

She raises her brows. “The girl who read romance novels and wrote love letters to boys who were supposed to never see them?”

 

He gives a slight shake of his shoulders. “Yeah. Well, that girl - she’d agree to my crazy plan.”

 

“Which is what?”

 

“Take a year off. Defer. Maybe even apply somewhere else. In the meantime, we’ll - I dunno ... go to New York. Or stay near home. Wherever.”

 

Her heart swoops low, and rises again at the suggestion. “I -” she starts, stunned. “We can’t do that.”

 

“Lot’s of people do that,” Peter points out.

 

“ . . . I mean, what would we even do, during that time?”

 

He laughs. “Get a job? The firm I worked at says they’ll let me clerk. And - and one of the partners knows a guy at a - a New York City firm. She says that he’d hire me, if I want the job. It might even be better for me to take a year off. Then Mom can use some money for Owen. And I can help out, too. I mean, it might not be  _much_ , I hear rent is terrible there . . .” he adds, sarcastically.

 

She furrows her brow. He’s got it all worked out.

 

“And me?” she says, quietly. “I don’t even know what I’d do in the meantime.” It’d be the same as if she went to Chicago with John, and she knew it felt wrong, even then.

 

“What? Your dad doesn’t know some hotshot doctor up there that’ll let you shadow him for a year?” He nudges her shoulder.

 

“Or her,” she says, pointed.

 

He waves a hand. “Or her. Don’t avoid the question.”

 

“. . . I mean, yeah, but they tend not to pay.”

 

“So? Do something part time. Or I dunno. Sell your cookies.”

 

“My - my what?”

 

“Your cookies.”

 

“ . . . Okay, let’s be clear, when I told you to come down and taste my cookies, I did mean cookies, but I also meant – ”

 

Peter bursts out laughing at her. “Your actual baking stuff. You honestly gonna sit there and tell me all your AASA bake sales didn’t net them a small fortune?”

 

Lara Jean shifts, considering. Next to her, Peter’s expression lights up as if in triumph.

 

_Arrogant little ..._

 

“I - well - I dunno. I’ll think about it.”

 

“You’ll think about it,” he repeats, slowly.

 

“It’s a lot to think about,” she says, defensive.

 

He lets out a low laugh. “I thought I had you there.”

 

“You really will make a good lawyer, you know,” she says, part affection, part annoyance. “Arguing all the time.” He grins winningly at her. Then she sighs, nuzzles her face into his neck. “Can’t we just pretend nothing else is going on? Just keep going like this for a little while longer?”

 

He pauses, and then says quietly, realizing, “You’re scared.”

 

She remembers that conversation.  _What do I have to be scared for?_  Back then, she was scared – of letting him in, getting burned, getting hurt. And now she knows she had a right to be scared, and ironically, not because of anything he did, or she did, or anyone did really.

 

“Aren’t you?” she says, quietly. “I can’t go through that again. I don’t think I could take it.”

 

She feels him sigh into her hair. “I’m fucking terrified,” he says, and her heart rolls over. Because if Peter – brave, happy, Peter – is scared, then . . .

 

There’s nothing really to say, after that. What else can you do when you're just treading water? Just keep treading, that's all.

 

She’s drowsing when he switches the subject - asks about Margot’s wedding. She tells him they’re all going next Sunday and they’ll spend the entire week there getting to know Ravi’s family, and seeing the sites, before the wedding ceremonies begin. Then Dad and Trina will stay another week, while she and Kitty fly back for school. She asks when he’s leaving for Portugal - next Saturday night, as it turns out. They have no concrete plans, except for one thing – they’re going to a convent. (“A convent?” “Carmo Convent.” “Cool. Why?” “I’ll tell you why later. Sworn to secrecy, and all that. Bro code.” “Ugh, the worst code ever.” “But – unbreakable.” “Ugh,  _still._ ”) The conversation is quiet, normal even.

 

He stays the night. After he finally convinces her to watch  _Speed_  – which, okay, was a fun movie, and she’s always loved Keanu – they have sex again. When she comes, sharply imploding in heated shivers around him, she has to bite her lip to stop herself from telling him something so very stupid, and insane. Not even the look he gives her, so softly and gently fond, right before she falls asleep on his chest, would convince her otherwise. When he leaves the next afternoon, she fills up his travel mug for him and they kiss goodbye, a short peck and nothing more.

 

And when she goes up to see him the next weekend (because she’s home anyway, she tells herself, for the flight to England), and they fall into bad habits again – a tangle of naked limbs and wet kisses, straight into his bed – she tells herself it’s okay. It’s all right. It’s easier, this way.

 

Because after all, they’re just pretending.

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol it ended up being 13 chapters anyway so sorry for the confusion D-:


	12. Chapter 12

Some time during the long night of the mehendi ceremony, after the men have returned from the pub and some of the guests are beginning to leave, and the night air begins to shift from chilled to outright cold, Lara Jean sees Margot crying in the backyard of Ravi’s parents’ house.

 

Lara Jean closes the back door, wraps her cardigan more tightly around her. At the sound of her approaching, Margot quickly wipes at her face, but doesn’t turn around.

 

“What’s wrong?” Lara Jean asks, hugging her from behind. She rests her chin in the crook of her sister’s neck.

 

“Nothing,” Margot says. “Just enjoying the view.”

 

Lara Jean eyes the blank brick wall skeptically. “And what a view it is.”

 

Margot sighs, pats Lara Jean’s hands at her stomach. “I miss Mommy,” she says, finally.

 

Lara Jean stiffens. The entire time, watching Ravi present the wooden ducks to Dad - she had thought, _Mom should be here._

 

Even though Margot and Ravi had elected not to do everything in a Korean wedding, or an Indian wedding, they decided to do some things and mix them together to save time and fuss. Tonight, they did the jeonanrye – where normally, the groom gives the mother of the bride a pair of wooden ducks. Then, the male guests left to go to a pub – “Not exactly traditional,” Ravi laughed, but they were improvising. Once they were gone, Ravi’s mother hosted the Indian mehendi, where an artist painted Margot’s hands and feet with swirling brownish red henna while the women talked and snacked and cooed over the bride-to-be. Tomorrow will be the actual wedding, “In all it’s mayo American-British glory,” Margot had wryly said. Now, Lara Jean wonders what part of the mehendi ceremony is supposed to be done by the mother of the bride, if anything. She doesn’t have the heart to ask Ravi’s mom.

 

“She’s here,” Lara Jean says, softly, instead.

 

Margot grabs Lara Jean’s hand, puts it against her heart. “I know,” she says, teary.

 

As she stares at their twined fingers – at the whorls and flowery motifs on her sister’s hands and arms, now dried – Lara Jean thinks, fleetingly, _When I get married, I want the ducks to go to Margot._ She says, “No tears. This is your day.”

 

“Tomorrow’s my day.”

 

“Days, then.”

 

Margot snorts. “Can’t believe I let myself get talked into doing all this after all.”

 

Lara Jean shrugs. “Yeah. But it’s been a great time.” And then she adds, realizing, “And because you wanted to do the Korean parts because of Mom, and the Indian parts for Ravi and his family. Because you wanted to honor and love your families, because they’re a part of you guys, too.”

 

“You sound like you’re from _Mulan_ ,” laughs Margot, sniffling.

 

“Hi-ya,” Lara Jean says, releasing her as she takes a martial arts pose. Margot laughs again, but it’s still teary. “Want me to get Ravi?”

 

“Oh, no, don’t bother him – ”

 

“I’m getting Ravi,” Lara Jean declares, and takes off before her sister can protest more. She finds him chatting with some of his cousins and whispers, “Margot needs you,” and he immediately puts down his drink and follows her to the backyard.

 

“You all right, love?” he asks, as he puts his arms around her.

 

“Yeah, just being a wally,” she murmurs.

 

“Stop talking like you’re English,” Lara Jean teases, as she leaves. She turns to watch them through the back door for a moment. They’re talking quietly, and Margot is still crying, but she’s also smiling up at Ravi with such tenderness in her eyes that Lara Jean has to turn away. This moment should belong to them, and them alone.

 

She goes to the front yard, sits on the front steps of the house – stares upwards, at the stars glittering against the velvet of the sky. Then she takes out her phone, connects to the Reddy’s WiFi, and types in a text.

 

_I miss my mom._

 

She stops - nearly doesn’t send it. Doesn’t want to bother him. But outside of Margot, who else can she talk to about this? Margot’s already sad about Mommy, and this should be her day, or days, rather. She should be happy. Kitty just won’t understand, not in the way Margot could, because Kitty never really knew Mom. Not to mention that these days, Lara Jean’s half-afraid Kitty would bite her head off. Talking to Trina would be awkward, because even though she loves Trina, and she knows Trina loves her, she doesn’t want to make Trina feel bad. And Daddy - no. Not when she can clearly see that he’s been sad about Mom too these days, probably for the very same reason Margot is.

 

She sends the text, doesn’t expect an answer because he’s probably living it up in Portugal right now. But she gets a response a few minutes later, while she’s searching for the Big Dipper.

 

_Do you want me to call?_

 

Lara Jean bites her lip. _Yes_.

 

It takes a while for the FaceTime to come through. “Hey,” he says, when his face comes up. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” she says. “Where are you? You didn’t have to. You know.”

 

“It’s cool. Eric’s busy throwing up in the alley.”

 

“Is he all right?”

 

“I mean, in the morning he might not be ...” Lara Jean winces in sympathy. “What’s going on?”

 

“I dunno.” She tells him about Margot crying. “It just got to me, is all. When we graduated high school – when Gogo graduated college, Mom wasn’t there and it made us all sad, but this . . . this is kinda different. I don’t know how to explain it. You know?”

 

“I know.” He pauses, and says, gently, “It’s okay to miss her. I know it hurts, but it’s still okay.”

 

She nods slowly, not looking at the camera. “Still sucks.”

 

“I know.”

 

They’re quiet, until Lara Jean mentions, “This is probably killing all your data.”

 

“No, I’m on the bar’s WiFi.”

 

“Outside?”

 

“Really powerful Portuguese WiFi here,” Peter muses. “It’s truly amazing.”

 

She snorts with laughter, then sobers. “Have you heard anything? About your dad?”

 

Peter shakes his head. “Case is still ongoing. Mom’s attorney says she probably won’t win, but we already knew that. Worth a shot, I guess.” He brightens. “Owen texted actually. Said he finally stopped calling. For real? I think it’s always gonna be like this.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Every so often he’ll call or show up to get his kicks. Maybe it’ll eventually die off. Maybe it won’t. Just gotta learn to ignore him and deal.”

 

Lara Jean worries her lip, tries to tell if he’s faking his calmness. He doesn’t look angry, or even sad. Just resigned, accepting.

 

“You really grew up, Peter,” she says, admiringly.

 

He smiles a little smile at her. “I had a good teacher.”

 

They say goodnight, and she and her family take an Uber van back to the hotel – Dad in the front, Kitty snoozing on Grandma’s shoulder because she’s never been good with jet lag, and Trina making small talk with the driver. When they trudge into the lobby, Dad hangs back. “Come on, kid,” he says, putting an arm around her shoulders. “How’re you holding up?”

 

“Fine,” she says, truthfully, as they stroll over to the hotel bar. “You?”

 

Dad orders a cup of tea for both of them. “Not exactly night-night tea,” he says, as the bartender fills up two cups for them, “but I don’t know, Ravi’s really got me hooked on this one.” He takes a cautious sip. “I’m doing okay. You know, I guess it just finally hit me Margot’s not coming back. But I’ll make do.” He watches her take her own sip of tea. “So. You gonna send in that UNC deposit?”

 

Lara Jean bites her lip. “I dunno. I’m not – I mean . . .”

 

“I thought you love it down there.”

 

“I do! I’ve loved every single bit of it!” she says. “I’m gonna miss it.”

 

“Miss it?”

 

“I . . .” Lara Jean puts down the teacup. “Dad. Would Mom be proud of me?”

 

Dad stares at her, surprised. “Of course, honey. Why would you think otherwise?”

 

“Would she still be proud of me if I didn’t go to medical school? Would you?”

 

“So . . . you don’t want to go to medical school now,” Dad says, slowly, brows furrowed.

 

“I mean, I do,” she says quickly. “I still do. I still very badly want to go.”

 

“Buuuuut?”

 

“But I don’t know,” she sighs. “I – I keep thinking how much I’ve changed, and how much I’ve stayed the same, too. I changed because I made this leap to go to UNC, and I loved every second I was here. Even the bad parts,” she adds, wryly. “So I keep thinking, maybe it was good to make those leaps. Maybe I should make another one.” She sets her elbow down on the bar, cups her chin with her hand. “And then I keep thinking – about Mom, and you, and how much it hurt when she . . . and how much it hurt, when . . . ”

 

Dad drums his fingers against his chin, looks at her side-long. “This wouldn’t have to do with a certain young man who got into Fordham Law, would it?”

 

Lara Jean nearly falls off the bar stool. “What – how did – he didn’t get into – ”

 

Dad almost rolls his eyes at her. “Ellen made an announcement on Facebook.”

 

There’s a swirl of conflicting emotions storming through her – true gladness, for Peter – shock at finding out this way – confusion, because why didn’t he tell her but – but the first thing she exclaims, in horror, is, “You’re still Facebook friends with his _mom_?! Oh, uuughhhhh.”

 

“What? What’s wrong with being Facebook friends with – ”

 

“You’re, like, you’re too old for Facebook – _Facebook_ is too old!”

 

“I remember when Facebook came out,” Dad says, musingly.

 

“Hence, the ‘old.’”

 

“She only used a couple of emoticons, it was rather sweet.” Lara Jean shudders. “Trina’s friends with her, too.”

 

She moans. “Ugh, you guys don’t, like, talk about us do you?”

 

“Us? I mean, when you guys were dating, of course we did,” Dad says. “Presently? No. What’s there to talk about? Unless . . .”

 

She blinks back at him, not giving an inch.

 

“Anything you want to tell me?”

 

“Nope,” she says, quickly.

 

“You realize I pay for your cellphone bill, right? I _can_ see who’s calling who.”

 

Lara Jean blinks. “We’re just talking.”

 

“Talking.”

 

“Yup! Talking!”

 

“And texting. A lot of that, too.”

 

Lara Jean purses her lips but says nothing. Dad just hides his grin behind a sip of tea. She flushes and decides to concentrate on her own, before she murmurs, “So he got into Fordham, huh?”

 

“Yeah, pretty good law school from what I gather. Full ride. Ellen was very happy.”

 

 _Why didn’t he tell me?_ she wonders. “When was the post?”

 

“Friday before we left.”

 

She frowns. She’d gone to see him that Saturday, to say good-bye. He didn’t say anything then. Not a peep. It doesn’t make any sense. Then, suddenly –

 

_I’m fucking terrified._

 

And then she knows, and that knowledge settles deep in her chest, heavy, suffocating – he didn’t tell her, because it was too much to hope that she would’ve gotten into NYU. Because she was scared, and he was, too.

 

Is. They both are.

 

“Honey, look,” Dad says, paying the bill. “Whatever you do, I want you to be happy. Your mom would want you to be happy. You’re a grown woman now, and I will support you no matter what.”

 

“Even if – ” She takes a deep breath, plunges forward. “Even if it means not going to UNC? Like, reapplying and waiting a year and going somewhere else?”

 

“To New York schools?” She holds his gaze, resolute, for a half-second – then falters. “Is that what you _really_ want to do?”

 

“I don’t know,” she admits, finally. “Sometimes I think yes, yes I should do it. Off on a grand adventure. It sounds so – so – ”

 

“Romantic?” Dad says, knowingly.

 

Lara Jean nods. “But then – I think about Mommy. She wouldn’t want me to do it, would she? I mean, be honest.”

 

“Honestly? No, probably not. But she’d love you regardless,” he says. “And honey – hey. There’s still NYU, right?” Lara Jean snorts, but Dad looks at her pityingly. “Ah, kiddo, I get it,” he says. “You win some, you lose some. Usually people say that after you lose something.” His face saddens somewhat, as he stands up and helps her to her feet. “I think you’ve gotten used to the losing part a bit too much. But just remember – the reverse is true, too. You lose some, you win some.” He kisses her on the cheek, and they head up to their rooms.

 

That night, with Kitty snoring in the bed next to her, Lara Jean stares up at the ceiling. She closes her eyes, and remembers. About the night sky, full of stars streaking silver – about what it was like to fall asleep under them, a warm hand in hers, and with the belief that despite everything – or maybe, even, because of it – that everything would be all right, in the end.

 

*

 

Lara Jean is fairly certain she ruined all the eye make-up. Lara Jean also doesn’t care, because she’s too busy taking video of Margot and Ravi’s first dance to the ukulele version of _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ and getting the perfect angle of them dancing around the peony-strewn courtyard.

 

All the guests cheer as Ravi spins Margot around, and Lara Jean sighs at the look on her sister’s face – happy, thrilled, a little relieved, maybe. She’s never looked more beautiful, in her peacock-blue and peach-gold hanbok. Even Kitty looks mildly happy, sipping on her pint of beer and laughing. Lara Jean catches Trina rubbing Dad’s back, and she can tell he’s struggling to hold back tears himself. So she reaches over and grabs his hand.

 

He smiles and squeezes it, and mouths, _I’ll be okay._

 

She gives him a shaky smile back, releases his hand. Everybody claps and cheers as the music ends, and then Margot bounds forward to grab Dad’s hands, and Ravi goes over to his mother, and the music starts up again to some pop song that Lara Jean doesn’t know but all the British guests seem to recognize instantly because there’s a huge roar of approval.

 

Lara Jean edges off the dance floor and posts a clip of the video on her Instagram, right where Ravi spun Margot. _Married! Congrats to my big sister and new brother._ She tags both of them, and adds the hashtags #maravi #springbreak #weddedbliss. Then she checks her e-mail.

 

Her application to NYU has been updated. So has Wake Forrest.

 

 _Might as well get this over with,_ she thinks, bracing herself. There’s no way she’ll be able to wait for the end of the day to check. She chooses Wake Forrest first – low risk, because she got into UNC on a full ride, so she should’ve gotten into Wake Forrest, too. And she has. Almost unthinkingly, she enters the NYU portal and types in her password.

 

_Congratulations on your acceptance to New York University Medical School . . ._

 

“Hey,” Kitty says, coming up to her from behind. “I need a drink. Do you need a drink? Let’s drink.”

 

“Y-you’ve already had too many,” Lara Jean stutters. She’s lost feeling in her hands, and almost drops her phone.

 

“Don’t judge my life,” Kitty slurs. “Hey – why are you -?”

 

“I – I . . .” Words failing her, Lara Jean mutely hands her the phone.

 

Kitty’s eyes widen. “Oh my god!”

 

“I know,” Lara Jean says.

 

“We gotta tell Dad and Margot!” Kitty says, grabbing her hand. Before she can pull Lara Jean back towards the dance floor, she trips and stumbles. Lara Jean barely manages to yank her up before she falls to the courtyard.

 

“Kitty, how much did you have to drink?” she exclaims, concerned.

 

“Only a leeeeeetle bit?” Kitty says, pinching her finger and thumb together and squinting through her glasses. Then she hiccups.

 

“Oh, god,” Lara Jean says, and pulls her back into the inn where she finds a chair and cup of water. “I can’t believe you! You got drunk at Gogo’s wedding. This is her big day. What if Grandma saw you?! Why did you – is this about Barnard? I thought you were glad you got into Bryn Mawr!”

 

Then Kitty bursts into tears, and throws herself into Lara Jean’s arms, and wails, “I’m just so – so – so _sad_ LJ! Everybody is so happy and I’m happy for them and it’s so great for Gogo and I love Ravi and I love Gogo and Daddy is so happy for them and so is Trina and so am I and _you_! I’m so happy for _you_ and Peter – ”

 

“Peter?! Wait, how do you know about – ”

 

“And you get to go to law school – I mean m-med school – I mean you guys get to go to school together in New York now – ”

 

“Wait, Kitty, slow _down_ – Kitty how did you - ?”

 

“And I’m sososo _so_ happy for you guys too but I’m just so jealous and so so so _sad_.” And then Kitty sobs even harder, so that the only thing Lara Jean can do is sit in the chair next to her and pat her on the head and pray her baby sister won’t throw up all over their bridesmaids’ outfits.

 

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning,” she says, after Kitty’s crying starts to finally calm. Kitty shakes her head no several times. “Okay, then, let’s start at the middle. How do you know me and Peter – I mean, well, we’re not _together_ together – ”

 

“Friends with benefits?” Lara Jean shudders. She’ll never get used to the idea of discussing anything of a sexual nature with Kitty. “Margot told me.” Lara Jean rolls her eyes. Of course. “Don’t tell her I told you! And anyway, it was an accident. She was so stressed with wedding planning, it just popped out.”

 

“Pop out? How in the world does ‘friends with benefits’ pop out?!”

 

Kitty shifts in her chair uncomfortably. “Well, we were reviewing the headcount, and she realized she had one extra person last minute, and then when I asked her why, she said something about it originally being for Jay Anthony McCumberbottom – ”

 

“Kitty!”

 

“ – John, but that she had kept it open for Peter, and just forgot to take him out entirely with all the fuss going on.”

 

Ugh. So, basically, Margot let something slip and Kitty sunk her claws in, straight for the jugular. Still. “Whatever,” Lara Jean mutters, darkly wondering if she should spill any of Margot’s secrets to Ravi. “How’d you know he’s going to New York?” Did he tell everybody _but_ her?

 

“Owen said. During homeroom, Friday before we left.” Kitty sniffles, then says, “Are you gonna call him? Peter, I mean.”

 

Lara Jean, still reeling, opens and closes her mouth. “I – I – yeah. I mean, of course I am,” she flounders. “Just – not now. It’s Margot’s wedding. And he’s somewhere in Portugal. It can wait.”

 

Kitty stands up suddenly, nearly topples over. But then she rights herself, nostrils flaring, and furious. Her fascinator starts to come undone from her hair. “Oh my god, you make me sick,” she yells. “Stop delaying! Stop making excuses! You two! Are the reason they write those corny Valentines Day candies with ‘Mint 2 Be’ on them! You’re so lucky because you two actually love each other. Do you know how rare that is? How special? Meanwhile I’m sitting here getting underage-sorry-for-myself-sloppy-ass- _drunk_ because I’m in love with my best friend and she isn’t gay like me and told me ‘let’s just be friends.’ My life is a classic gay-people-can’t-be-happy _fail_ and you guys could and should be happy! You two infuriate me. You make me sick. SICK! _SIIIIIIIIIICCCCCCCCK!!!!!!_ GAAAAAAAAAH!!!!”

 

Lara Jean sits back, stunned. “You’re actually not underage drinking since it’s England,” is all she can say at first. Kitty gives her a withering glare and rips the fascinator from her hair completely. “I’m sorry about Brielle,” Lara Jean says, kindly, when she’s gathered herself. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“Because!” Kitty sighs dramatically, crossing her arms. She flops back down into the chair. “It’s Margot’s special day. With everything that’s going on, they shouldn’t be worried about me.”

 

“No, I meant, before. This has been going on all year.”

 

Kitty sighs again, shrugs. “I guess I was afraid,” she says, so quietly Lara Jean has to dip her head closer to hers to hear.

 

Lara Jean scoots her chair over, and wraps her arms around her little sister’s shoulders. “Don’t ever be,” she says, fiercely, her heart clenching. “We are here for you. All of us.”

 

Kitty looks up at her, teary-eyed. “You don’t - I mean you don’t care that I’m – ”

 

“ _No_ ,” Lara Jean says, shaking her head. Then she shrugs her shoulders. “‘Course, we all suspected.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I mean - no boyfriends, your declaration that you’d never cry over a boy – ”

 

“That’s nothing!” Kitty snits. “I was a kid!”

 

“You wore a tux to Dad’s wedding. You’re wearing a suit _now_.” Lara Jean points to her peacock-blue pantsuit, which Kitty had _insisted_ upon instead of the silk shift Lara Jean’s wearing, then plucks the crushed feathers-and-flowers pillbox fascinator from Kitty’s grasp. “We had to _beg_ you to wear this! And, oh, and anytime there’s a sex scene on TV you’re a little too interested with the girl parts than the guys – ”

 

“That’s because the male gaze in media is always focused on the female body as an object and thus more female nudity is shown on scre -“ Kitty halts at Lara Jean’s teasing expression. “Okay. I like boobs.”

 

Lara Jean laughs and hugs her. “I’m so sorry about Brielle,” she murmurs, because she gets it.

 

“It sucks because I know she’s never gonna feel the same,” Kitty mumbles. “Like, it’s not like – oh, you can wait around and hope – she’s never, ever gonna . . .” Her face crumples again. “And it’s worse because she really does just want to be my friend. She still keeps texting me. I just want her to leave me alone.”

 

“Oh, Kitty,” Lara Jean says, heartbroken. “You don’t have to, if it’s too painful. But – maybe – maybe you should stay friends with her. I’m sure she’s hurt too. But like I said, if it hurts too much, you don’t have to. And – and you’ll go to Bryn Mawr. You’ll go and meet other girls. And maybe you’ll meet that one girl. And she’ll be the love of your life, and you’ll be hers. I promise.”

 

“I don’t know. That happily ever after shit is like, for Margot and Ravi. You and Peter.” Lara Jean smiles, fondly. Despite the harshness of her words, Kitty already looks significantly better. The bend in her posture has lessened, in a way. _She’ll know,_ Lara Jean thinks, with confidence. _One day, she’ll get it, for real, and she’ll be so happy, and she’ll deserve every minute of it._ “What about you?”

 

“What about me?” Lara Jean asks.

 

“Are you gonna tell Peter? You should call him. Right now.”

 

“I am,” she says, firm. “And I will.” Kitty frowns, about to protest again, but Lara Jean cuts her off. “I swear to you, I’m not delaying. I’m really not.”

 

“Really?” Kitty asks, skeptical.

 

“Really,” she replies. “I just think I should tell the rest of the family first, right?” They stand up together, and she holds out her hand for Kitty. “Do you want to tell them about – you know – ?”

 

Kitty hesitates. “Later?” she says, biting her lip. “I will tell them, I just – you know, this should be about Margot. And your good news. I don’t want to worry them.”

 

“Okay,” Lara Jean says, and they walk out back to the courtyard together, holding hands.

 

*

 

Later, after Dad swings her around, tears in his eyes – and Grandma and Trina kiss and hug her senseless – and Margot squeals “I knew it! I knew you’d get in!” (and somehow, this, her big sister’s affirmation in her, that makes Lara Jean cry) – and Ravi takes the DJ’s microphone to announce his new little sister’s good news, with Margot beaming beside him – and everybody toasts to the new Mr. and Mrs. Covey-Reddy – Lara Jean takes a little stone path to the side of the inn, and sits on a wooden bench by a small fish pond. Some guests are milling around here too, and they smile at each other as they pass, but for the most part, Lara Jean lies back against the seat and tilts her head towards the setting the sun, just taking it all in.

 

Then she picks up her cellphone and opens up her texts.

 

 _Hey. I know about Fordham. Kitty said Owen told her. Congrats._ She stops, unsure of what to say. A joke? A long declaration? She decides the simple truth is the best. _I got into NYU._ She hits send, her heart thudding along to the beat of the music from the party. Her hand shakes, and she quickly adds, _Need a roommate?_ with a winky face.

 

She slides the phone back into her clutch, not really expecting an answer until much later. The sky, in fact, is starting to darken considerably when her phone buzzes. She rips it back out of her clutch and pulls up Peter’s reply.

 

_Are you fucking joking???_

 

She bursts into giggles, almost hysterical at this point. _No,_ she texts back, instantly. _I’m not hand on my heart stg_

The . . . appears forever – disappears – then reappears. She’s on the verge of FaceTiming him when a wall of text comes through.

 

_Covey you better not be shitting me I’d call but I really can’t right now I swear to god it’s for a very good reason my phone is about to die but also check out Lily’s insta_

Giggling, Lara Jean opens up Instagram – they’d mutually followed each other a few weeks ago. Lily has posted something. Lara Jean squints – it’s of a guy on his knee, and a girl standing over him, her hands to her face, both of them surrounded by the beautiful ruins of an ancient church, in the setting sun.

 

It’s DeMarcus and Lily.

 

Lara Jean gasps, and texts back, _OMGOMGOMG. Was this the bro code thing? Did she just post this?_

_YES!!!!!!!!! Literally two seconds ago!_

_OMG. Tell them congratulations!!!_

He doesn’t reply for a bit, which, given the circumstances, is understandable. She’s still on pins and needles though, bouncing up and down in her seat. _I will are you still at the wedding?_

_Yes._

_I’ll call you when we get back to the hostel. My phone is almost dead. We might be here for a while. Lily won’t stop crying. I think D wants to puke._

_OMG. That’s so romantic. The crying part, not the puking part._

As she waits for Peter’s reply, Lara Jean likes the post, and comments, _Congratulations!!! So very happy for you guys. Love it._

It doesn’t take long for Lily to respond. _Thank you, honey! I hear congrats to you too._ She’s added a winky face, with a kissing face.

 

Lara Jean blushes, and then Peter’s reply comes through. _I know which part you meant, dummy._

_Don’t be a smartass. Talk to you soon._ She stands up, and then adds, for the first time in a long time –

 

_I love you._

_I love you too._

 

*

 

In the darkness, they whisper. It’s not that much different from when they were doing long-distance, if they really think about it – under blankets, phones casting bluish glows on fuzzy faces, their respective roommates slumbering nearby. Only this time, it’s Kitty, snoring, passed out drunk (“She had _how_ many pints again?!”) and, well, it’s still DeMarcus (“I forgot how loud he is.” “Tell me about it.”), and also Eric, and the rest of the guests in the men’s hostel bunks.

 

“Is she gonna be okay?”

 

“Yeah, I think so. She said she’s gonna tell Dad and Trina and Gogo tomorrow.”

 

“Poor kid. I did ask Owen, but all he said was that he thought they were fighting. I thought it was girl stuff. Not. You know. _Girl_ stuff.” He pauses. “Whatever. Brielle’s loss.”

 

Lara Jean smiles, touched. “It’s okay. Thank you for asking.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

She snickers, and they’re quiet, listening to each other breathe.

 

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” she finally murmurs at one point, yawning.

 

“Me, neither.” He yawns too. It’s very late. Or early. Depends on your perspective. “When are you flying out?”

 

“Day after tomorrow. Um – ” She stops, checks the time. “I guess really tomorrow. Dad and Trina are staying for a little while longer, remember? What about you?”

 

“Tomorrow.” He quirks his lips. “Or I guess today. In six or so hours.”

 

She giggles. “You should go to sleep.”

 

“I’ll sleep on the plane.” He yawns though. “Text me your flight number. I’ll pick you guys up.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, but she says it warmly, like she likes the idea. Which settles the question.

 

He says, light, but he means it, every word – “You’d have to drag me away, Covey.”

 

She giggles again, eyes half-lidded with sleep and fondness, and she nods. “Okay.”

 

“Okay,” he mimics, and she laughs outright. Somewhere behind her Kitty snorfles in her sleep, but doesn’t wake up, and they both laugh. And then he says, calm, and serious, his voice low – “I keep my promises. The most important ones. You know that, right?”

 

Her eyelids flutter closed. It looks like she’s gone to sleep. But then they open again, and tears slide down her cheeks. They wet the pillow underneath her face.

 

She whispers, “With all my heart.”

 

And he murmurs, “Always.”

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) I read about Kitty possibly being gay from pathstotread's Test Drive and yes head canon now
> 
> 2.) Someone asked for alternate endings, and I'll post notes about them in the final part. :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wild horses couldn't drag me away  
> Wild, wild horses we'll ride them some day

For probably the hundredth time, Peter checks the monitors. The flight status is still the same – ARRIVED. Objectively, he knows the lines through customs are bad – after all, he was just here yesterday, coming back from Portugal – but this is ridiculous. He feels like he’s been standing here forever, waiting.

 

Finally, he spots them – Kitty first, sporting an obnoxious beanie emblazoned with the Union Jack flag in front, blue-white-and-red pom-pom bobbing, and trudging along with Lara Jean through the sea of international arrivals. He grins, and waves – when Covey sees him, her sleepy, tired face breaks into a large smile. She nudges Kitty, who perks up and immediately dashes forward with her rolling suitcase, leaving Lara Jean in the dust.

 

“Hey, kid,” he says, lifting her off her feet with a bear hug. He hasn’t seen her in a while – when he and Covey broke up, he’d sometimes run into Kitty in town, but that was it. She’d always greet him nicely enough, but with a certain amount of distance. It’s nice to see her back to being what he always knew as her regular self – though he’ll probably never get used to the fact that she’s taller than Lara Jean now.

 

“Hey,” she says, and when she releases him, steps back and declares, “I’m gay.”

 

Peter feigns surprise, just like Covey told him to do. “Whaaaat? Are you kidding? Seriously? I had _no_ idea – ”

 

“Ugh, spare me,” Kitty says, rolling her eyes. Peter shrugs his shoulders, and says, “I’m good, if you’re good.” He eyes her, and says, seriously, “So are you good?”

 

The brash exterior fades for a second, and he’s sorry he even asked, but then Kitty seems to gather herself, and lifts her chin. “Getting there,” she says, and then, “Can we get on with this? I’m starving.” She heads for the exit, calling over her shoulder, “You guys coming?”

 

“Hey,” Lara Jean says quietly, as she strolls up. She’s smiling up at him with the same, soft, tender smile that’s so familiar to him and he smiles down at her before she says, “Those for me?”

 

“No, that was for Kitty,” he jokes, as he hands her the bouquet of flowers. “Mind giving it to her?”

 

She snickers, then sees what’s nestled inside the spray of pink and white daisies. “Um . . .” She pulls out the Yakult, shakes it questioningly in front of his face. He just grins, blithely, and takes back the daisies.

 

“Go on.”

 

Lara Jean tears off the little folded square of paper that’s wrapped around the bottle. She smirks at her name – traces the tiny love heart with her finger – and opens the note. Her expression falters for a second with emotion as she says, “This isn’t the one - ?”

 

“The note I wrote for the ski trip? No,” he says. That he had promptly crumpled up in the hotel room wastebasket, with the entire stash of Yakult, after she’d refused to sit with him. He’d agonized over that note for days, ecstatic that she’d finally agreed to go, and thought maybe a line of poetry cribbed from something she liked to read would’ve been good, or maybe something original, but couldn’t come up with anything – because he was embarrassed, and nervous, and just being a dumbass. He’d ended up putting down something simple, to the point – but true. And then all his teenaged plans were tragically dashed thanks to an EDM concert, or so he’d thought. He can laugh about it now. It was so overly dramatic. “But it says the same thing. With an addition, of course.”

 

She looks down at the note again, at the words he’d scratched at the bottom . . . at the hasty drawing of a comet streaking around a planet . . .

 

_Let’s make this real._

 

Then she reaches for him, holds him tight – he takes a deep, shaky breath, her heartbeat against his. “Congrats on getting into NYU,” he murmurs. “Smarty pants.”

 

She chuckles into his chest, her laugh distinctly teary. “Congrats on Fordham.”

 

“Guys, are you coming or what?!”

 

They separate, Lara Jean yelling, “Okay! We’re coming!” Then she to Peter, “Geez, she comes out once and she gets _so_ bossy . . .” She wipes the back of her hand against her eyes and kisses him lightly, close-mouthed but sweetly, and hands the note back to him. “Let’s do this,” she whispers, voice trembling, and then she adds, with a slight laugh, “Comet trash.”

 

And he can only smile back down at her, because if he doesn’t, he might do something truly stupid, and besides, he doesn’t quite trust the sound of his own voice. He folds the paper back up, hands her the bouquet of flowers, and slides the note into her back jeans pocket – and as they stroll away together to catch up with Kitty, he keeps his hand there too, for good measure.

 

*

 

“But I _liked_ that one,” Lara Jean whines from the other side of the turnstile. “It was so charming!”

 

“You sound exactly like one of those girls from _House Hunters_ , and you hate those girls from _House Hunters,_ ” Peter says, sliding his MetroCard through the reader. He pushes through the turnstile and grabs her hand when he makes it across. He fakes a high voice. “It’s charming! It’s got character!” He switches back to his regular voice. “Meanwhile it’s got roaches and rats chewing through the wires.”

 

“This is New York, every place has roaches and rats chewing through the wires,” she quips.

 

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be eating _with_ them on the kitchen table!” She punches him on the shoulder and he says, “Weak.” She punches him harder.

 

After a moment of silence, waiting for the train to arrive, she admits, slowly, “Yeah, well . . . I guess not. Maybe we should look further out?”

 

He looks horrified. “We agreed! The city. This was non-negotiable.”

 

The roar of the incoming train snatches away her reply. As they push through the crowd of people and take their seats, she says, “There’s nothing wrong with Long Island. Westchester. Or New Jersey.”

 

“ _Jersey_ , Covey?”

 

“Your uncle lives there! He has a nice place.”

 

“But it’s Jersey!”

 

“Do you really want to be paying all this money for rent for roaches and rats?”

 

“ . . . Okay, no. But the commute would be hell. Do you really want to commute in from Jersey? _Every_ day?”

 

Lara Jean scratches the back of her neck and shrugs. “I mean . . . not . . . _really._ ”

 

He gives her a smirk. There’s a ping and he pulls out his phone. “Sorry – I gotta – ”

 

She waves him off, takes a sip of her bubble tea, and puts her head on his shoulder as he answers his e-mails. The place _was_ a shit-hole. But the location was amazing. With a little elbow grease they could really make it their own –

 

Ugh. She _is_ beginning to sound like one of those _House Hunters_ girls. She yawns, closes her eyes, and starts to doze on Peter.

 

She’s jolted awake by their stop and Peter’s hand at her elbow, helping her up. Once they get off the subway, they stop at the corner bodega and split up through the aisles and grab the essentials – milk, bread, eggs. Canned cinnamon rolls for tomorrow’s breakfast, because _when_ was the last time she had enough time to make them from scratch? She can’t remember. Her poor mixer is standing neglected in their teeny cupboard in their even teenier kitchen.

 

“Think she fed them?” Peter asks, low, as they clamber up the stairs to their walk-up.

 

“Yes, and only sugar,” Lara Jean replies, tired, as she hands Peter her oversized bag and unlocks the front door.

 

“MOMMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!” Aidan comes screeching into her legs, grabbing on fast, before jumping around Peter. “Daddy Daddy Daddy guess what guess what guess what Daniel pooped _everywhere_ on your bed and – ”

 

“Greeeat,” Peter sighs, setting down the groceries in the cramped hall. He drops his briefcase on top by accident, and they hear a cracking sound.

 

“Oh god, the eggs,” Lara Jean exclaims.

 

“ _Goddammit_!”

 

“Sorry,” Kitty says, despairingly, as she barrels out of the bathroom, the baby at her hip, gumming his fist. He’s totally naked, wrapped only in a towel, hair wet. “I put him down for _one_ second, and he literally exploded –”

 

“That’s what you said last time,” Peter calls, heading into the bedroom to survey the damage as Aidan cavorts around, following him and still chattering about the poop debacle. Lara Jean retrieves Daniel. The baby immediately grabs hold of her hair and tugs, hard.

 

“Ouch!”

 

“Here.” Kitty helps disentangle his drooly hold. “How did the surgery go?”

 

“I’ve had better ones,” Lara Jean admits, kissing Daniel’s cheek. “The guy nearly bled out on me. Hey big dude. Miss me?”

 

“Buh!”

 

“Well, that’s another sheet ruined,” Peter says, coming out, the sheet balled up in his hands. Aidan comes out behind him, doing karate moves and muttering “Hiya! Cha! Waaah-ya!” as Peter heads to the kitchen. “Kitty, can you stop changing them on our bed?”

 

“Or at least, you know, put a towel down,” Lara Jean suggests, helpfully. “Aidan! No, don’t grab another snack.”

 

“But I’m hungry!”

 

“I _told_ you, no more snacks.”

 

Aidan stuffs the cookie into his mouth, as always, heedless. “Buffim _hungwy_!”

 

“Come _here_ you greedy little – ” Peter drops the sheet on the floor, grabs Aidan from behind and presses his forefinger and thumb into both his cheeks, forcing him to regurgitate the cookie, straight onto the kitchen floor.

 

“Did you feed them?” Lara Jean asks Kitty.

 

“Yes! I can’t help that they’re little garbage disposals.”

 

“Did you feed them actual dinner this time?” Peter asks, pointed, as he starts cleaning the mess on the floor. Aidan dances away, still whining about being hungry.

 

Kitty’s eyes dart. “Look, I’m a blogger and perpetual PhD student, I can’t be held responsible for minor children’s nutritional needs when I can barely sustain my own.”

 

“Ashley is a _chef_ how could none of her cooking skills rub off on you?”

 

“Because she cooks and I take care of . . . other things.”

 

“Please don’t tell me what those other things are, because it’s definitely not cleaning,” Lara Jean says, peering at the tornado of crumbs, puzzle pieces, dinosaurs, and broken crayons in the small living room.

 

Kitty just grins, lascivious.

 

Lara Jean groans into Daniel’s cheek. She exchanges glances with Peter and knows he’s thinking the same thing – they should have never asked Kitty to fill in for their regular nanny, who’s been out sick. But she was the closest option, and really, the only option.

 

Peter sighs and pulls out his wallet. “Go get pizza for all of us around the corner,” he orders, slapping some cash into Kitty’s open hand.

 

“Um, is this _all_?” she says.

 

*

 

Lara Jean startles awake, wondering what happened. As she rubs her eyes and turns onto her back, Aidan mumbles something and kicks, reflexively, like a puppy in his sleep. Yawning, Lara Jean picks up the dinosaur book off his chest, pulls the blanket over him in its place. She kisses him lovingly on the cheek, whispers, “You are such a monster,” and crawls out of the bed, muscles sore from lying in such an odd position.

 

In the living room, she pads past Kitty, passed out asleep on the couch – hops over her sister’s overnight bag – and heads to the master. Peter’s in the rocker, one arm curled around Daniel and holding a nearly empty bottle to his mouth. He’s holding up his oral argument notes with his free hand, muttering to himself.

 

Lara Jean groans and slips into bed. The room still smells faintly of poop despite burning a Yankee Candle and spraying Febreeze onto the still-damp mattress. “My boobs are like rocks,” she says, pulling at her nursing cami. The skin has begun to itch, it’s that bad, and she has a feeling she’ll start leaking soon. She should pump, but she’s exhausted, and besides, she’s pretty sure there’s still plenty of breast milk left in the freezer. It took the entirety of her maternity leave to build that stash up. “Think he’s in the mood for more?”

 

Peter pulls the bottle out of the baby’s mouth, and he promptly shrieks with anger. “What do you think?”

 

“Give ‘im here.”

 

Peter shuffles over and waits as she arranges the nursing pillow before handing the baby over to her. As the baby latches on, Peter crawls into bed next to her, face down into his pillow. “Ugh, it still smells like shit here.”

 

Lara Jean winces – Danny just started teething and it hurts like hell sometimes. “Yup. Yup, it does. Lot’s of shit.” She leans against the headboard and closes her eyes, trying to doze. She’s just so tired. Going back to work after having Danny, dealing with two kids instead of just one, and Peter finally switching jobs from private practice to the ACLU . . . His hours are better, but still. Sleep would be nice. Sleep would be lovely.

 

Danny finishes up, passed out milk-drunk. Peter’s lying on his stomach, still reading his notes. His posture reminds her of when they were in grad school, studying late in the night. They used to think they were so tired back then, chugging coffee and Red Bull to stay awake.

 

Ha. What did they know then? Nothing.

 

“Did you ever think it would turn out this way?” she asks, nuzzling the baby.

 

“Hmm?” Peter peers up at her, adjusts his glasses. He hadn’t liked the fact that he started needing them to read, but she still thinks he looks charming. Distinguished. “Yeah. Every second of it.”

 

“Even the shit?”

 

“Especially the shit.”

 

The baby stirs on her chest and she sits up. Better put him into his crib before they both fall asleep. “And the drool, too,” she adds, tapping at the wet spot on her nursing cami. “Urrrrrgh.”

 

“Here.” Peter sets down his notes and picks up the baby and she dabs at the drool stain with a tissue. As she settles in more comfortably, she can hear him crooning nonsense to Danny as he sets him down into the crib at the foot of the bed. “Hey bud. Hey. G’night. Don’t wake up ‘til morning.”

 

“He will most definitely not listen,” Lara Jean says, eyes closed, when Peter climbs back into bed. She can hear him shuffle through his notebook again.

 

“First time for everything,” he says, easily.

 

Despite herself, she smiles. Then she snuggles deeper into the pillow. Big surgery tomorrow, bright and early. And Peter’s got that oral argument tomorrow too. And then they have to meet the realtor, because they’re bursting out the seams here. Maybe she can try to convince him to go to Jersey City, or Hoboken, where Lucas and Andre are now living. Or Westchester. Westchester’s nice, right?

 

“Just picture it,” she says, quietly. “Nice big house. White picket fence.” Peter scoffs. “Big backyard. Barbecues.” Peter doesn’t say anything at that, which means she’s hooked him. Sensing triumph, she adds, “A nice tree. Perfect for tree houses.”

 

“Tree houses?” Then he snorts. “I dunno. Those things are trouble.”

 

“Just because _we_ used to fool around in tree houses doesn’t mean our kids will.”

 

Peter snorts again, flips a page in his notebook. Mutters, “The prosecution cannot meet the court’s standard of review for . . .” Then, louder, to her, “They’re boys, they will get into trouble in a tree house.”

 

She giggles. “I now know what your mom meant when she called you and Owen heathens.”

 

“We were perfectly well behaved kids, I have no idea what she meant.”

 

She scoffs at that. Every time Aidan steals a cookie or refuses to bathe or runs screaming through a subway car or calls her Covey instead of Mommy because Peter never could kick that habit, and then turns around and smiles up at them, pleasant as pie and a gleam in his eyes, she sees Peter in him. Or Kitty.

 

Definitely Kitty, too.

 

She hears his finger slide against the page of his notebook, the occasional flip of paper. She’s on the verge of sleep when he sighs, then says, as if an afterthought, “Everett called. Wants to know if we’re coming to the wedding.”

 

She sighs, too, fully awake again. They’d gotten the invitation a month ago. It was bound to come up soon. “We can go to the wedding if you want to go to the wedding.” She waits, because she has a feeling she knows what’s coming.

 

“Dad might be there. Everett felt like he had to invite him.” Mr. Kavinsky had sent a card when he got wind that she’d given birth to Aidan, nearly eight months after he’d been born. He’d said he was so looking forward to meeting his first grandson, and enclosed a hundred dollar bill. Peter had thrown the card in the trash, and said it wouldn’t happen, and besides, he was pretty sure there’d be no more gifts or cards. And he was right. Nothing for the next four years, and not a peep when Danny was born. Peter ended up giving the hundred to a homeless guy he usually sees on the way to work.

 

“Still stands. We can go if you want. But if you don’t want, we don’t.”

 

“Yeah, but then we’ll miss Everett. And Clayton.” They’ve never been exactly close, he and his half-brothers, but as the years have passed, he’s softened somewhat towards them. It’s just odd, with the age difference. Jillian, though, they all still barely know – when her mom eventually split up from Peter’s dad, they went all the way to Seattle.

 

“Okay. Then. Let’s go for the ceremony, leave the reception early if he’s there. We’ll use Danny as an excuse – he’s gotta rest, he’s teething, something. They’ll understand. And it’ll be nice to go back home for a weekend. We’ll hang out with Owen’s family. Your mom would love to see the boys. So would Dad and Trina. Maybe we can even get Margot and Ravi to come over. They’re due for a visit anyway. Then the boys can play with their cousins from both sides of the family.”

 

“This might mean we have to suffer through several speeches of how he always knew he raised us right, how I got all his smarts from him, and yaddah yaddah blah blah blah,” Peter warns, but she can tell he likes the idea of seeing everybody else.

 

“As long as you’re cool with it, then I am too,” she says, truthfully.

 

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

 

“And moving to Jersey?”

 

“ _Covey._ ”

 

“Or Westchester! Wherever.” She sits up on her elbows, pleading.

 

“Think about how much _less_ time we’ll have with the kids if we have to commute,” he says.

 

“We’re commuting now.”

 

“ _In the city._ It takes Franklin an _hour_ to get to work and he’s in Bergen County.”

 

“Where’s Bergen County?”

 

“You want to move to Jersey and you don’t even know its counties, come on, Lara Jean. I mean, don’t you love it here? We just need a bigger place. That’s it.” He shakes his head. “Can you really picture living anywhere else but here?

 

She pauses, thinking. About all the times they were much younger, and would walk down a busy street, in the middle of the night, where the buildings were lit up instead of the night sky – searching for a good place to eat, a new place to explore, everything an adventure. Her hand in his, every step of the way.

 

And now they’ve got two more little hands, too.

 

Which makes her think of something else.

 

“Hey. If I hadn’t gotten into NYU, what would you have done?”

 

“What do you mean, what would I have done? What would _you_ have done?” Peter exclaims, nonplussed. “Told you before, Covey. You’ve always been the one steering. I’m just along for the ride.”

 

Well, what _would_ she have done? She was a kid, back then. There’s an entire lifetime between then and now, years of experience and hindsight and knowledge. They were such children, and now they have children of their own.

 

Funny how life turns out the way it does.

 

“I really don’t know,” she admits, and he laughs. “But I think . . . in the end . . . I would’ve gone with you.”

 

His looks up at her, with the barest quirk of his lips. “Really?”

 

She can tell he’s flattered. “Really.” Then she laughs. “Only, I think we would’ve starved.”

 

He laughs, too. “Yeah, maybe.”

 

She smiles at him, cheeky. “And what would _you_ have done, oh wise counselor? If I hadn't gotten in and insisted on staying in Carolina?”

 

“Easy,” he says, turning back to his notes. “I would’ve taken the year off and gone down to Chapel Hill. Worked, and applied to go to UNC Law.” He flips his notebook closed with flourish, pats the cover. “But then, we probably wouldn’t be here, would we?”

 

Her smile turns soft as she looks around their bedroom – at the stack of unfolded laundry. At the stacks of dirty laundry. At the crib that’s proving impossible to maneuver around, because there is literally no more space. And at the window, where the blinds are open just a crack, to where she knows the neighborhood better than the back of her hand. Her favorite corner shop, where Mrs. Pak sells Yakult – the little park where Aidan has “his” designated see-saw and swing – their favorite diner just two blocks down, where she can order eggs benedict with extra hollandaise sauce and Peter scarfs down the meatlovers omelet and Aidan gets the kids chocolate chip pancakes dripping in syrup. She loves being in the city, this place they’ve called home since they first stepped off the train at Penn Station, two slightly lost and terrified but desperate to look cool (as a cucumber) kids who were here to ride off into the sunset in the most wonderful city in the world. She loves being here.

 

So, she’ll table moving out of the city. Besides, they only just started searching. They’ve got all the time in the world.

 

“Well, thank god for miracles, then,” she says. He grins at her, starts putting away his notes. She turns her back to him and hugs her pillow as he putters about, turning off the lights and checking on Danny one last time. When Peter slides in next to her, he drapes his arm around her waist, still thick from her pregnancy, and kisses the back of her neck.

 

She pats his hand. “’Night.”

 

“’Night. Good luck tomorrow. You’ll knock it out of the park.” It’s only her fifth surgery since coming back from maternity leave. In a way, it’s been like riding a bike. But she’s been careful to schedule relatively simple ones. Relatively. She’s been so tired lately that she thinks it’s safest option for her patients.

 

“You, too,” she mumbles.

 

A long pause, so long that she’s almost asleep. Then, a muffled – “Do you want to get it on?”

 

Lara Jean snorts in disbelief. “Are you kidding?! God, _no_ , I’m exhausted.” Then she giggles. “And we’re in a bed our kid pooped on!”

 

“Oh, thank god, I was afraid you’d say yes,” Peter says, relieved, as they burst into hushed laughter, trying desperately not to wake the kids.

 

-The End-

 

 

So, I had a request for alternate endings. I really struggled on how to end this the right way – and I was pressed for time, since I’ve got work commitments coming up shortly. So, I have to admit, I picked the “quickest” way out, which was coincidentally, the happiest – but perhaps maybe the not the “realest.” I couldn't fit this all into the a post-script A/N, so here it is: 

 

  * **Original ending** – back when LJ would run up to UVA to tell Peter about his dad, she would’ve found out Peter got into Washington and Lee. Even though at this point she would’ve admitted to herself she still loves him, because he’s going to WL, she decides not to tell him that she and John broke up. So, they say goodbye, LJ believing that it’s the right thing to do so he can go to law school and help out his family. No fwb shenanigans. Eventually, during pre-wedding ceremonies, LJ would find out she got into NYU, and Kitty would reveal that Peter got into Fordham. LJ, overwhelmed, would refuse to tell him that she’s going to NY too (because she’s not sure he still loves her), so Kitty being Kitty would’ve called Peter and called in the favor that he promised to her in order to get her to take him to the Korean grocery store. ;) Peter would’ve shown up at the wedding (ditching his friends in Portugal, sorry DeMarcus and Lily!), LJ would tell him about NYU and that she broke up with John, they would’ve basically rushed up to her hotel room and banged. A lot. ;)  **Why I didn’t go with this ending** – I couldn’t get past the fact that why wouldn’t either of them have mentioned to the other beforehand where they were applying to? It didn’t make any sense, lmao. Basically, it would’ve been very very very contrived in my head. It makes me sad, because I did at one point have the “hey, guess what, I’m going to NY too,” scene written out – and the rush up to the hotel room scene too . . . where they unfortunately would’ve accidentally interrupted Kitty and her wedding one-night-stand. >;D 



 

  * **Ending 2**  – Peter would’ve gotten into Fordham, LJ would’ve gotten into NYU. Except Peter would decide not to go to Fordham, because it didn’t give him enough money. He would go to Washington and Lee. LJ would’ve gone to NYU. Kitty would’ve found out Peter got into Fordham, told LJ, and LJ would’ve decided to keep NYU a surprise for when they get back. Then Kitty, in her scheming glory, would’ve called Peter to tell him “Guess what! LJ got into NYU! I told her you got into Fordham!” Peter would’ve been horrified, because he can’t go to Fordham. Kitty would’ve been mortified. He would’ve taken a flight to the wedding to break the news to LJ in person. But – they would’ve agreed to remain friends and, in essence, “wait” for each other. The final scenes would’ve been them a few years later – Peter’s graduated, working at a large law firm in VA, and LJ has just started her second-year residency. It would’ve been revealed that they’ve been talking the entire time; that they’ve both dated other people during this time period; but that they’re in a good spot friendship-wise, and are currently not dating anyone. Then Lara Jean gets a letter – it’s a copy of his offer letter from the ACLU in NYC. The last scene is them reuniting at her apartment.  **Why I didn’t go with this ending** – ummmm, wow, it would’ve required a lot more writing. Also, a lot more angst to get to the eventually happy ending, and I wasn’t in the mood for that. Also, in my head, I couldn’t wrap around why they would “wait” and yet date other people. It was too open-relationshippy for me, and it didn’t seem like something they could or would do. Also, fyi, I used to practice law, and Peter probably would’ve been better off financially getting into Fordham (even with major debt), graduating, and working at a major law firm in NYC than going to Washington and Lee and sticking around in Virginia. Basically, everything would’ve been very contrived just for the sake of aaaangst. That being said, I think, had I enough time, I probably would’ve gone with this ending. Or maybe the third ending, hahaha!



 

  * **Ending 3** – LJ wouldn’t have gotten into NYU, Peter would’ve gotten into Fordham. LJ decides to take the year off and go to NYC with Peter. She’d shadow a doctor friend of her dad’s, make some money in the meantime through baking, etc. She would’ve eventually applied to a NYC-area medical school (of which there are many!). The final scene wouldn’t have been future LJ and Peter and their kids, but LJ and Peter about to drive to NYC with all their belongings.  **Why I didn’t go with this ending** – Oh god. As much as I am so very fond of the idea of LJ taking a risky leap like this, because she’s young, she’s got time, etc., the rational adult in me says, “NO FOR GOD’S SAKE NO.” I wouldn’t be as chill as Dr. Covey. NYC is expensive, the food business is tough even if this wasn’t NYC, and the raging feminist in me is like, frothing at the mouth at the idea of giving up a free ride to a very good medical school like UNC for a dude (sorry, not sorry, PK).



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost all installment titles come from the song, Wild Horses, by The Rolling Stones, but the version I probably think of most is The Sundays'. Probably the best song for young love, tbh. The only installment title that comes from a different song is Part 1, I Might Get to Too Much Talking, which comes from Lauv's I Like Me Better (which I'm sure we all know by now lmao). 
> 
> So, there you have it! Thank you to everybody who’s read the series, left kudos, and left comments. I’m sorry real life stuff got in the way. I do still have an idea or two floating around in my head, and hopefully, if I have time, I will get to them eventually. 
> 
> Or maybe if you want, leave a comment for a fic request. If it’s short, and I can get to it, then maybe I can do it! ☺
> 
> ETA: 4/22/19 - Edited the work to correct Peter's half-brother's name (dopey me thought he was Ethan, not Everett), and to change John's appearance to reflect the casting of the second movie. :)


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